


Liars

by OniGil



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers Generation One
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Drunkenness, Intrigue, M/M, Prostitution, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, prewar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2860616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OniGil/pseuds/OniGil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the war, their paths crossed. One courier, one buymech, a few lies and several truths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I gave a bit more thought to my headcanon for Wing's backstory (for Wayward Light, The Highest Calling, etc.) and suddenly it mutated into... this. I blame Drift.
> 
> *In the "Shadowplay" arc, Chromedome is referred to as "Chromedome" even though his real name during that time period was Tumbler; similarly, I use "Wing" in the narration, although other characters will call him "Sunstrike," his pre-Circle name. I considered the options and decided this was the least confusing way.

            “Lightwave, second and third district; Deluge, fourth district…” Windstream handed out stacks of message pads to each courier down the line. “And Sunstrike, you’re the fastest: first and fifth.”

            “I thought Stormfront was first district today,” Wing said, taking the pile. First district was the wealthiest and included the Senate house. The tips were always amazing, and Stormfront needed the shanix more than Wing.

            Windstream waved her arm at an empty space in the cramped courier office. “Stormfront didn’t come in this morning.”

            “He never came home last night,” Lightwave said. Her face creased with concern. “I think something might have happened to him.”

            “What was his last delivery?” Deluge asked. Windstream checked the records in her processor.

            “Fifth district, the underground.”

            Deluge and Wing glanced at each other. Lightwave chimed in distress.

            “That’s the third this year! Before Stormfront it was Rainswept, and before her it was Skybright! Why do you keep sending us there?!”

            “The money is good,” Windstream said defensively.

            “Yeah, because you have to hire someone new after they whack the last guy!” Deluge said.

            Windstream sighed. “None of your conspiracies today…”

            “It’s not a conspiracy, it’s common sense! You have us running messages for crime lords and what do you get? They think we know too much! They think it’s safer to get rid of the messenger! Seriously, don’t you have a _screening_ process or something?!”

            “If you want to get out of here, be my guest,” Windstream said. Wing glanced at Lightwave and jerked his head towards the door. She subspaced her stack and followed as the other two argued. “It’s not that hard to find other courier models who aren’t so mouthy.”

            “Better unemployed than dead!”

            When the door was between them and the bickering, Wing said, “I’m sorry about Stormfront. Is there anything I can do?”

            “Just be careful down there,” she said, wrapping her arm around his shoulders and squeezing for a moment. “I hate fifth district.”

            “I think it’s colorful.”

            “‘Colorful?’ I would have said something a lot less cheerful. That’s just like you, Strike.” She shook her head with a sigh. “I mean it, be careful. People are talking a lot lately… the gangs are getting more uppity, the fanatics are moving in to protest against the Senate. All that Recepticon stuff.”

            “Decepticons.”

            “Whatever. You know the ones. Just look out for yourself, okay? I _know_ you. Don’t let that bleeding Spark lead you into any dark alleys or you’ll bleed right out. At least buy a gun or something.”

            Wing snorted. “I’ve never held a blaster in my life. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me… you’ve got two districts to worry about instead.”

            “So do you, mister I-fly-faster-than-everyone. Watch your back, Strike.”

            They transformed and took to the air, heading in different directions. Wing gunned it towards first district. Objectively, Lightwave was right, and the fifth district—Rodion and the Dead End—had been filling up with protestors and rebels in addition to the usual criminals and homeless. But there were messages to be carried there too.

            He pushed the unrest out of his mind and let himself enjoy the flight. Part of their pay was compensation for the fuel they burned flying around the city, but not much—Wing used most of his shanix on energon, then rent, without much to spare for fun. But it was a living, and on a good day, a first district kind of day, he got enough tips to earn a night out without worrying about his fuel requirements. Maybe this would be a Maccadam’s night. Lightwave might want to come along—she could use the company of friends after Stormfront’s disappearance.

            He checked his message queue and shuffled those destined for the Senate house to the front as he altered course into a downward spiral. It was always best to keep them happy.

            He landed on his feet outside the service entrance, where supplies and messages came and went. A courier sharing his model but painted in different colors—red, for Tarn—was just leaving, and gave him a tired nod before leaping into the air.

            “You’re not the one I expected,” the guard said. He’d been working the Senate building for a long time, long enough that he recognized the various couriers and knew their schedule, even when he wasn’t working the service entrance. The guards, like the couriers, cycled around to different areas. “Get the roster shuffled?”

            “Stormfront couldn’t make it today,” Wing said, with his usual cheerful smile. The guard tilted his head knowingly. He was a huge black-plated mech, with the Senate’s gold insignia on his chest and the blue optics of Security forces. He had a gold crest on his forehead and a massive axe strapped to his back. Wing wondered if he could actually use it, or it was for show. But probably the former.

            “Fortunes of war,” the guard said after a moment. He swept his scanner a few times up and down Wing’s frame as Wing spread his arms. The light blinked green. “No bombs today. I was hoping for some excitement!”

            “Don’t hope too hard,” Wing said, thinking of Stormfront.

            The big mech patted his shoulder. “Sorry about your friend,” he said. He must have picked something up from Wing’s EM field. He’d always been perceptive. “Go on in.”

            Wing had always been astonished by the opulence of the Senate house. Yes, it was beautiful, but a kernel of frustration, even anger, burned at the bottom of his Spark. There were mechs starving in the Dead End, and here there were fountains, crystals reflecting light, gold-plated walls, exotic fabrics from alien worlds. Selling one swatch of that would keep Wing fueled for a year. Not for the first time, he wondered whether the Decepticons had a point. This was just… wasteful.

            He stifled the anger by concentrating on the job at hand. Messages for clerks, one for Security Forces, one for a Senator himself. He bounced that to the top of his queue.

            A guard-escort showed him into an office that was far more stark and austere than the rest of the building. It was refreshing: the one nod to luxury was a painting that represented the Guiding Hand. Senator Dai Atlas was known for his religiosity.

            The Senator himself looked up from his work and dismissed the escort with a nod. “Yes?”

            “Message for you, Senator,” Wing said, with a shallow bow. “To be delivered by hardline.”

            Dai Atlas got up from his desk. He was much taller than Wing, probably taller than the guard at the service entrance, and intimidating. But Wing extended his arm, sliding back the cover over his hardline ports. Dai Atlas did the same and connected a cable. Wing sorted through his partitioned memory core, skipping over his personal data and flicking through the professional until he found the message, unopened and undisturbed. A polite query ping later, the message was transferred safely from Wing’s memory to the Senator’s. Dai Atlas’s optics dimmed as he scanned the contents.

            “Deliver a response,” he said, and a data packet popped up in Wing’s memory, followed by a receipt of funds transferred to the courier service, and finally Dai Atlas disconnected.

            “That will be all,” Dai Atlas said, closing his hardline panel. “Wait.” He reached into subspace and brought out a few shanix chips, which he dropped into Wing’s palm. It was a good tip—very good, delivered with the casual indifference of someone who could afford much more. Wing closed his hand a little quicker than he usually would.

            “Thank you, sir.”

            “You were quick,” Dai Atlas said curtly. Not praise, just an observation. Still, Wing smiled.

            “I just love flying, sir.”

            “That will be all,” the Senator said again, and this time he meant it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wing's bleeding Spark gets him in trouble. Predictably.

            Wing spent the rest of his day flying around the area delivering messages and responses, queued from most to least urgent, with a break for refueling in the middle. Finally he checked his chronometer. Time to call it a day and give the rest to Windstream to sort out tomorrow. He sent a ping to Lightwave, but she was still in the air finishing her rounds. _Maybe next time?_ she responded.

            _Next time_.

            Alone, then. Well, he’d be careful. He set a course for Rodion and Maccadam’s.

            It had always been a dangerous area for the unwary, but security had improved since some new captain had come in from outside. There were still leakers in the alleys, gangs in the underground, but the main streets were fairly safe. Wing liked the place, anyway: it was colorful, as he’d told Lightwave. So many different people, sights and sounds, full of life, and neon lights, and noise and chatter. He might not want to _live_ there, but he liked to visit, and take it all in.

            He adopted his particular Rodion walk. It wouldn’t do to drift here and there like he didn’t know where he was going: an easy target that way. He was still smiling, but with a harder, “don’t-even-think-about-it” edge.

            Shouting caught his attention. People in the street were skirting around a commotion outside the entrance to a club with pounding bass pouring out of every window. A big shuttle-type mech was towering over a tiny cycleframe, who lay sprawled on the ground as though pushed. The shuttle reached down and hauled the other mech up, shaking him bodily as he shouted into his face.

            Everything he’d said about being careful and keeping his head down and not letting his fragging bleeding Spark get him into trouble? Just went right out of Wing’s head. He stepped up to the pair as the cyclebot wrenched against the bigger one’s hands.

            “Hey,” he said, wedging his shoulder into the space between them until it opened up enough for him to sidle halfway in. “You think you could take this down a bit? Go easy on him.”

            “You stay out of this,” the shuttle snarled. “It’s none of your business. That right… Sweetspark?”

            The cycle gripped Wing’s arm tight enough to leave paint scrapings. “I don’t know this guy,” he whispered.

            “Look,” Wing said, craning his neck to meet the big guy’s optics, “take it easy. Let him leave, and we can go back inside and I can get you a drink. How’s that sound?”

            “It sounds like you’re an idiot who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut and keep walking.”

            A fist struck Wing’s cheek and sent him sprawling. He pushed himself up, tasting energon. He raised an arm in supplication as he got to his feet. “Wait! There’s no need to fight anyone, just let the mech…”

            The shuttle’s fist crashed into his midsection and he bent double, coughing. He could almost hear Lightwave berating him. _Fragging idiot! I warned you about that bleeding Spark! You don’t even know how to fight!_

            Probably something he’d have to fix, he thought grimly as the guy threw him down and gave him a hard stomp. Pain lanced across his side, but as the big shuttle stepped over him towards the little cycle, Wing grabbed his foot and pulled hard, making the shuttle stagger. The cycle took off. Wing staggered back to his feet, wiping energon away from his lips. Maybe the big guy would forget it now that his victim had—but that thought had barely formed when the shuttle grabbed Wing by the throat, dragging him up until his feet left the ground. Wing tried to kick him. One or two glancing blows actually connected, but they just made the shuttle mad.

            “When I’m through with you there won’t be enough scrap left for the leakers!”

            “Don’t know about that,” a new voice said. “We leakers are pretty good at finding scrap.”

            Wing squinted. A tiny bright glow—a knife—had appeared at the shuttle’s primary fuel line at his neck. He couldn’t see who was holding it.

            “So let’s try this again, and this time you’ll listen. Put him down and walk away. Think it’s worth getting arrested over? Or do I have to cut your lines and take what I can get?”

            Wing heard a siren start up a few streets over. The shuttle growled and threw him down. His optical feed glitched out for a minute, and by the time it came back, the big mech was gone, and the crowd had started to shuffle away. Nobody around here wanted to be questioned.

            “Up you get, hero,” someone said, dragging on his arm. Wing could stand, barely. His legs were shaking. “Pick your battles. You’ll live longer.”

            The hand dragged him away from the scene, to a quieter and corner of the street, at the mouth of an alley. Wing wiped more energon off his lip and the mech gave a disgusted sound.

            “Waste of energon. Just lick it. That back there? Was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.” Wing took a look at his rescuer. He was about Wing’s size, with armor so scuffed and scratched that in this light it was hard to say what color it was supposed to be. Probably white. He had a light racer’s frame, but obviously not one with much success, and yellow service-class optics. A pair of slanted finials tapered up to points above his helm. “And I’ve seen a lot of stupid things. Trust me.”

            “I guess that’s just who I am,” Wing said. He sat down on an empty, broken crate.

            The mech snorted. “Stupid?”

            “Just a bleeding Spark, I guess.” Wing sighed resignedly, poking at the dents in his side. Energon was leaking between the plates, but not much. His internal diagnostics didn’t suggest much internal damage.

            “That guy was twice your size.”

            “Twice yours, too.”

            “Yeah, but I’m armed. Why didn’t you stay down when he slugged you? He wouldn’t have bothered after that.”

            “I don’t know. I just wanted to help.”

            The other mech turned his face skyward, as though asking for patience. “Better straighten _yourself_ out first.”

            Wing sighed. He was probably right. Some help he’d be to anyone if he got himself pasted.

            “What’s that look for?” the other mech said, misinterpreting. “Who am I to talk, right? ‘The buymech tells me to straighten out my life?’” His voice twisted around a sneer.

            “That’s not it,” Wing said hastily. “I didn’t even know.”

            The mech tapped his own shoulder with one finger. “Right here.”

            “Um…?”

            “Wow. You _are_ hopeless. Use your lowlight filter. Everyone does down here.”

            Wing switched over, and like magic, a faintly glowing red circle appeared on the mech’s shoulder. He looked around with the new filter. There was more here and there, glowing messages scrawled on walls. _You are being deceived_ , and _for a good time call_ … and _equal rights for knockoffs_. But in exchange: “There’s a lot of colors missing.”

            “Who needs that? This uses less fuel.”

            “I… I see,” Wing said.

            “Tourist,” the mech muttered.

            “I like it down here,” Wing said. He winced and touched his dented face as his self-repair popped some of it out. “Usually.”

            The mech shook his head in disbelief. Then he shifted and grumbled, “You going to a clinic for that or what?”

            “I think I just need to rest a while,” Wing said, looking out at the traffic up and down the street. The other mech shrugged.

            “Whatever.”

            “What’s your name?” Wing asked.

            The buymech made an irritated noise and hesitated. Finally he said, “Drift.”

            “I’m Sunstrike. Thanks for your help.”

            “Yeah, well, it’s bad for business if security shows up. People get antsy and go home.”

            Wing nodded. He hadn’t thought of it that way.

            “Stop looking at me like that,” Drift snapped.

            “Like what?” Wing asked, startled.

            “Like I’m tragic. I’m not ashamed of what I do. When it comes to survival, I’m not picky. Can’t afford shame. What are you, some kind of courier or something?”

            “Yes.”

            “Running around delivering people’s messages all day, you think that’s better than what I do?”

            “No.”

            “Damn straight. It doesn’t matter what people do to my body. They can’t touch this—” He jabbed a finger at his chest. “—and they can’t touch that.” He pointed to his head. “So what does it matter? I’ve got something people will pay for. Good enough to keep me alive.”

            “I understand,” Wing said. Drift settled, his EM field less hostile and defensive than before.

            “Good.” After a minute, he grumbled, “Don’t know why I’m still talking to you.”

            “I’m easy to talk to,” Wing said. “People tell me things. It’s my job.” And Drift seemed easy to talk to too, or maybe Wing was just reciprocating what Drift had told him, because he looked up at the buymech with a glib smile. “Did you know my mind is government property?”

            Drift looked down at him, a tickle of curiosity in his field. “Really?”

            “We run messages for some powerful people, like Senators. Some of it’s classified, which makes us an official security risk. So every so often we undergo a mandatory wipe. We keep our personal memory, but all the professional data is gone.”

            “What if you store something in your personal memory? How would they know?”

            “That’s never been a problem,” Wing said. “Some of the Senate have raised a fuss, but they’ve never had a reason to get into our personal memory.”

            Drift laughed. “See? _That’s_ sad. No one ever messes with _my_ head. Now… are you going to that clinic or aren’t you?”

            Wing poked his injured side. It stung, but he wasn’t in danger. “We get compensated for injuries on duty. Some people don’t really understand ‘don’t shoot the messenger.’”

            “You’re not on duty.”

            “I could lie.” Wing shrugged with a rueful smile. “I’m a good liar.”

            “Yeah, me too,” Drift said. “When they buy my time I can pretend it does something for me.”

            Wing opened his mouth, shut it, and opened it again. “Does it ever? Do something for you?”

            Drift looked away, down the street. “No. Not for a long time.”

            Wing was silent for a long moment. Drift shifted.

            “Look, I should get moving. I need some business toni…”

            “Can I try?” Wing blurted. That… didn’t come out the way he wanted, and he shut his mouth, burning with embarrassment.

            Drift shrugged. “You got shanix?”

            “I’ve got a little.” Wing dug out the tip he’d gotten from Dai Atlas.

            Drift looked at it with an unreadable expression, then scoffed and took the money. “That’ll get you an hour.”

            He pushed off the wall and something changed in the way he stood, in the set of his features, in his voice as he said “So, sweetspark, what’ll it be?”

            Wing leaned away from him unconsciously. “Could you not?”

            “Not what.”

            “Not… be like that. Can you be how you were before I paid you?”

            Drift sighed and suddenly he was right back to the way he was, looking impatient. “Are you coming to my place or not?”

            “Yes,” Wing said, getting up with only a little wince.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some clangin'. Eventually.

            “This is where you live?”

            “No, I thought I’d break into someone else’s squat for a quick clang-clang.”

            _Ask a stupid question_ , Wing thought, looking around. He had a feeling they weren’t supposed to be here—this building looked like it hadn’t been in use for years, and it _sounded_ like it was ready to fall down on top of them at any moment. Drift’s place was one room, way at the back, the door camouflaged by torn wall panels and stacks of junk. There was a rusty slab that passed as a berth, covered by a ragged cloth that must have been pulled from a dumpster in a middle-caste area. There was one storage box with a dented corner and a cracked-open lid. Drift had planted himself solidly between the box and Wing.

            “I know, right? I’ve even got an actual berth!” Drift said with wooden enthusiasm, deliberately misinterpreting Wing’s look. “And a real live window, for all your purging needs.”

            “Why would I need to purge?” Wing asked. He still hadn’t come more than a few steps into the “squat,” but his olfactory sensors let him know that the window had indeed been used for that purpose fairly recently.

            “When the stench of the gutters overwhelms your delicate sensibilities,” Drift said.

            Wing laughed. “I think you’ve been misinformed about my delicate sensibilities.”

            “Whatever. Where do you want it?”

            Wing stepped closer, raising a hand towards Drift’s arm. “May I?”

            Drift shrugged. “Whatever.”

            Wing ran his hand down Drift’s arm, stirring his sensornet. “How do you want to do this?”

            Drift gave him a strange look. “Not about what I want,” he said, with a trace of bitterness. “You’re buying.”

            _No wonder you never get anything out of it_ , Wing almost said. Instead, with his hand still resting lightly below Drift’s elbow, he asked, “May I kiss you?”

            Drift twitched. He covered up by grumbling, “If you’re gonna _ask_ for every little thing, this’ll be a long night.”

            Wing leaned in. Drift tensed up like he thought Wing might explode, but he didn’t pull away when Wing brushed their lips together. His mouth was stubborn and unyielding. After a moment Wing pulled back far enough to see Drift’s nonplussed look.

            _He’s not even trying_ , Wing thought, dismayed, but it only made him more determined. He kissed Drift again, moving closer to press their frames together. Drift’s hands came up to his hips and the buymech rocked meaningfully against him. _Get a move on_ , he was trying to say, but Wing kept him waiting. He had to teach Drift how to kiss properly.

            Drift’s mouth softened from stubbornness to uncertainty. Wing slid a hand to the back of his neck, teasing the bottom rim of his helm, and parted his lips to show him how to deepen the kiss. Drift finally took the hint when Wing reached up even further to run his fingers up the underside of one of his helm finials.

            Wing ignored Drift’s increasingly impatient EM field, trying to coax him to soften up more. Now that Drift understood kissing better, it was more enjoyable. But finally Drift tugged his mouth away.

            “So are we doing this standing up or…?”

            Wing eyed the berth mistrustfully. Well… he could always clean up later. And it wasn’t as if anywhere else in here was cleaner, and they couldn’t do this very well standing.

            “We can move it to the berth,” he said. Drift tugged out of his hold and retreated to the berth, lying down on his back and instantly spreading his legs apart. He stared at Wing almost defiantly.

            “Come on then.”

            Wing hesitated, thrown off by Drift’s brusque attitude. He’d never been in a situation like this—he’d never been with a buymech, let alone one so determined to follow the only script he knew. He didn’t know how to proceed.

            He moved to the berth, but instead of settling between Drift’s legs as expected, he straddled the buymech’s hips, leaned down, and kissed him again.

            “What _is_ it with you and—” Drift grumbled against his mouth, but he shut up and kissed back. This position gave Wing more leeway to touch him. And he did, fascinated by all the ways Drift’s frame was different from his own. He usually interacted with other fliers—more specifically, other fliers in his same model. Still, he’d interfaced with one or two grounders before, and tried to remember what they liked.

            Drift’s engine thrummed under him as he explored with his fingers. The grounder’s hands settled on his hips. It was impossible to tell whether he was enjoying this or not. Wing tried not to let that bother him. It just made him examine Drift even more closely, picking up on every twitch, every flicker of his optics.

            “Stop staring and get a move on,” Drift grumbled.

            Wing picked up Drift’s wrist and pressed a kiss into his palm. “Are you this rude to all your… partners?”

            “Just the suckers,” Drift said, but his optics were fixed on Wing’s lips moving across his fingers, confused and maybe—unless it was wishful thinking—the tiniest bit intrigued. “Is this your idea of foreplay? Oh, _no_ … don’t tell me you still have your seals.”

            “No,” Wing said absently, before taking Drift’s first two fingers into his mouth and letting his tongue slide over them. He didn’t miss the way Drift’s engine purred under him. Drift went quiet, watching. His optics flicked up to meet Wing’s, then away.

            Wing nudged his cheek against Drift’s hand as he let go of it, instead getting his fingers into some interesting seams around Drift’s chest. Drift didn’t yank his hand back as Wing had expected; he let it sink cautiously, fingers brushing down Wing’s face and neck, over his chest, finally settling at his waist. Wing watched Drift look him over again, more heatedly, and tried to decide what was real and what wasn’t. The way his lips parted when Wing’s fingers stroked into the seams beneath his arms, was that an affectation or a true reaction? The way his hips shifted between Wing’s legs—impatience or desire?

            Drift met his gaze again. “You’re still staring,” he said. Did he sound strained or did Wing only want him to? “Do you have to stare? Come on, what do I have to do to get you revved up?”

            “Have you considered that maybe this is what gets me revved up?” Wing asked, tugging gently at wiring in Drift’s hip joints. “Seeing someone else’s pleasure?”

            “Yeah, right,” Drift muttered, but he arched up and gave a shaky moan. “Now can we… _please_ … get to the clanging?”

            “Do we have to?” Wing asked, leaning down to nibble on Drift’s jaw. Drift’s hands pulled down on his hips as he ground up in circles, creating hot friction between their panels. With a click, Drift’s opened up, letting out even more heat. Wing’s vents hitched.

            “I want to,” Drift said, meeting Wing’s eyes for a second before looking away and dragging his fingertips down Wing’s thighs. Wing shuddered, knees pressing harder against Drift’s sides. This was Drift’s element now; Wing’s control was slipping away, and he found he didn’t really mind. “Come on. Enough stalling. Spike or valve?”

            “May… nn… may I have your spike? Please?” Wing’s faceplates went hot. It was by no means his first time but something about Drift made him shy. Compared to Drift he might as well still have his seals.

            The words had barely left his mouth when he heard the click of a cover and felt the heat of Drift’s spike sliding against his closed panel.

            “If you’ve got somewhere to put it,” Drift teased, sliding a hand between them and tapping teasingly on Wing’s panel. Wing opened up both his panel and his valve cover. His fans kicked up a notch as Drift’s fingers circled the rim, finding lubricant already gathered there. “Huh. Thought you were lying about the watching thing. Guess you really do get revved up like that. Oh, oops,” he added without a trace of remorse as his fingers dipped inside. “How’d that happen. I guess it’s just so slippery down here, look at that…”

            Wing panted to supplement his fans as he rocked helplessly on Drift’s fingers. Apparently the buymech made up for a bad attitude with clever hands.

            “N-now who’s stalling?” he pointed out.

            Drift’s grin flickered. Wing regretted saying anything—for a moment Drift had been enjoying himself. Now he had that smoldering buymech smile again—more seductive, less genuine. Wing tried to backtrack. “I didn’t mean you had to—”

            He cut off with a gasp as Drift’s fingers spread his valve rim open to accept the buymech’s spike, sinking into him in a movement slightly rougher than necessary. Wing forgot what he’d been going to say as Drift’s fingers left, leaving just his spike; the hands went instead to Wing’s hips and anchored there, pushing and pulling to guide him as Drift surged under him. Caught off guard, all Wing could do was ride it, bracing his hands on Drift’s chest.

            He gathered his scattered thoughts and focused his half-lit optics on Drift. The other mech’s face was flat, optics narrowed in concentration as he watched Wing’s hips move. The sight was so at odds with the heat between Wing’s legs that he had to shutter his optics and pretend. Pretend that Drift’s face was alight with pleasure, his optics warm with desire, Wing’s name on his lips. He heard a moan, too perfectly laced with harmonics of need. He wanted to pause, to touch Drift the way he deserved to be touched, to smile and speak to him, but it was all happening too fast now, and Drift knew his business too well. Wing’s joints seized up as his calipers clamped down tight, delighted by Drift’s spike between them, and Drift’s hands kept his hips moving and toppled him into the worst great overload of his life.

            When the pleasure had released his limbs, Wing slumped onto Drift, vents still whirring. His valve cover clicked shut, satisfied and empty. Wing didn’t want to open his optics as sense returned to him. He didn’t want to see what he knew he would in the buymech’s face. He quested blindly with his lips, finding Drift’s mouth, but it was hard as before.

            He finally opened his optic shutters to find Drift looking just past his head.

            “So?” he asked, forcing a cheerful tone, even though he already knew. He couldn’t even feel heat in Drift’s tucked-close EM field—like arousal was something he could flick on and off with a switch. He hadn’t even overloaded. “Did it do anything for you?”

            “Of course it did,” Drift said, with the right harmonics coloring his voice.

            Wing allowed himself another few seconds to rest his head on Drift’s shoulder, like he would with any of his lovers.

            “Liar,” he murmured.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your social life’s so miserable that you’ve got to pay a buymech for a date?”

            It was a close thing, but he couldn’t quite regret saving the jet. Not every day you found an easy mark like him. Any idiot could tell Sunstrike had no idea what a buymech was worth, and Drift was far from an idiot. That jet dropped enough shanix in his hand to buy Drift’s whole night.

            “That’ll get you an hour.” What a sucker.

            Now all he had to do was overload the jet and send him on his way so Drift could decide what to do with his money. He could take the rest of the night off, or keep working for a little extra.

            He reckoned without Wing’s stupid, naïve determination to make him ~feel good~ or something. People didn’t usually touch Drift any more than they had to. Usually it was panels open, in out, thanks bye. Thanks optional. But Wing…

            “How much do I owe you?”

            Dammit. He knew the lie might come back to bite him. “You already paid.”

            “It’s been more than an hour,” Wing said, his pretty face crumpled in concern. “What do I owe you?”

            He pulled out some more chips. Drift eyed the shanix hungrily. Why hesitate? This was the easiest mark ever! Like taking candy from a sparkling! So why did he feel a twinge of conscience? Conscience didn’t buy energon.

            He grabbed a few chips at random. Holy frag, he only charged this much for the _really_ kinky stuff, not a vanilla ride.

            “We’re square.”

            Wing hesitated. “Thank you.”

            Drift flapped a hand at him. “Whatever. Don’t get mugged on your way out.”

            Wing hesitated again at the door. “I…” _Spit it out._ “Can I see you again?”

            _No. Get out of my life._ “You know where to find me.”

            And off he went, leaving Drift with a handful of shanix and more stuffed in his subspace.

            The smart thing would be to go get more business. He’d have something saved up, for once, and enough to both get energon and a little something extra. He’d drink a toast to bleeding-Spark couriers and inject a little liquid bliss and forget the whole thing.

            But for some reason, he didn’t want to go out again. Didn’t want anyone else touching him tonight, holding him down and plowing into his valve and reminding him of that ache that never really went away.

            His plating tingled. Everywhere Wing’s hands had touched him felt warm. Drift’s first instinct was to run a systems check, even though Wing couldn’t possibly have drugged him. Came up clean, just overheated, and…

            Frag him with a rusty piston. He was revved up.

            Had it really been so long that he’d forgotten what it felt like to get revved up? He’d gone so long and now this dumb jet, with his fingers and his _eyes_ …!

           Drift’s spike nudged against its cover. Those eyes. Drift had been paid to put on a solo act for voyeurs before, but it was different when Wing watched him. All thoughts of getting more business tonight forgotten, Drift went to his knees on the berth, letting his spike jut into his hand.

           Remembered Wing’s valve around him. If Wing thought he was oh-so-different for taking Drift’s spike, well, Drift had been asked for that before. But with Wing… it _had_ been different.

            He thrust into the circle of his fingers, feeling a mounting heat he hadn’t in ages. And all he could think of was Wing riding him. And Wing’s tongue, when he’d sucked on Drift’s fingers. And Wing’s hands on him. And Wing’s eyes, watching him.

            Drift’s overload was almost painful—it had been _that_ long. He panted, one hand braced on the berth, the other suddenly coated in transfluid.

            His systems cooled down fast and what had been a nice fantasy a second ago was an irritating sticky mess to clean up now.

            “Nobody touches this,” he growled, smacking his own helm with his clean hand. “Nobody gets in my head.”

 

* * *

 

            Booting up after a wipe was always disorienting. Wing woke up with the nagging sense that he’d forgotten something—which, of course, he had. They all had. The Senate official who oversaw the wipes spoke tersely to Windstream in low tones while the technicians packed up; then all of the visitors disappeared.

            Wing was still running a check as Windstream handed out assignments. As usual, his personal memory was intact.

            “Everything’s there,” Lightwave said.

            “Of course, how would we _know_ —” Deluge began.

            “ _—know_ if anything was missing,” Lightwave and Wing chorused. He’d been saying that for years.

            “No conspiracies today,” Windstream said, slapping a stack of datapads into his hands. “Not in first district. It irritates them.”

            Wing and Lightwave received their own assignments. On their way out, Lightwave said, “Maccadam’s tonight, Strike?”

            “Maybe next time.”

            “You’ve been saying that for a week! What’s going on? Got a date?”

            _Maybe_. “I’m trying to save up some. Another time, I promise.”

            Wing raced through work, counting his tips. It looked promising. Tonight he’d finally have enough.

            He couldn’t stop thinking about Drift! Wing didn’t even know why the other mech fascinated him. There was the interfacing—that had been nice, of course, but that wasn’t all of it. Drift’s rudeness should drive him away, but Wing even liked that. Drift was different from anyone he’d ever known. He was matter-of-fact, he was strong, he was a challenge. Wing wanted to know more about him, and he’d spent all week saving his tips in hopes of meeting Drift again.

            The minute he finished his rounds, Wing flew to fifth district and landed amid the crowds gathering for the nightlife. He moved through the bustle, searching for white plating.

            Maybe he was out of luck. Maybe Drift had gone to another area for business. Maybe he’d gotten an early start and was already occupied for a few hours. Wing had no desire to make his way back to Drift’s squat and find him entertaining another client. He kept looking.

            Wing was close to giving up when he spotted dirty white finials on a street corner. His Spark gave a funny leap and he wriggled his way through the crowd.

            Drift was leaning against a wall, eyeing the crowd for prospective customers. Wing broke out of the foot traffic.

            “Drift!”  
            Drift looked at him. “Oh. It’s you. Funstripe.”

            “Sunstrike.”

            “Whatever.”

            “Are you free tonight?”

            “Nope,” Drift said. “Same price as always.”

            Wing couldn’t help it—he grinned. He could have sworn the corner of Drift’s mouth twitched too. “You know what I mean.”

            “Nothing better to do,” Drift said. “What’ll it be? You trying to get me revved up again?”

            “Actually, I was hoping…” Wing faltered. It sounded silly now, but he went on. “I was hoping we could just… hang out? I’ll pay you for your time. But can we just go somewhere and talk?”

            Drift stared him down with narrowed optics.

            “What’s the catch?” he asked finally.

            “What? There isn’t one.”

            “I’ve got this right? You pay me, we just… talk?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Your social life’s so miserable that you’ve got to pay a buymech for a date?”

            Wing had been trying to avoid the D-word. Heat rose up in his faceplates. “I just want to get to know you better,” he said. “But I don’t want you to go hungry. Look…” He shifted to hide his hands from the crowd as he dug out the same amount of shanix he’d paid in total for the time they’d spent last time. “This covers a couple of hours, right?”

            Drift glared at the money, then stuffed it into his subspace. “Deal. My place? Maccadam’s?”

            “No.” Wing didn’t want to go to Maccadam’s and get accosted by Lightwave and Deluge. They wouldn’t understand about Drift. _Wing_ didn’t even understand it. “We’ll go somewhere else.”

            Drift didn’t say much as they walked the short distance. He stopped when he saw where Wing had gone. “ _This_ place?”

            Wing glanced up at the sign. “Yes…?” It wasn’t even a fancy place—he couldn’t afford that on top of Drift’s fee—more like a diner than anything. “Why not?”

            Drift made a noncommittal noise, but followed just behind Wing up to the door. The bot working seatings gave an automatic smile to Wing, then glanced past his shoulder to Drift. Her already false smile got even more brittle.

            “Table for one?” she said.

            “Two,” Wing said.

            The false smile became more like a grimace. “This isn’t that kind of establishment.”

            “Excuse me?” Wing said frostily.

            The server looked over Drift again, her optics lingering pointedly on the gently pulsing red circle on his shoulder. “I’m afraid he’ll have to go. We don’t serve that type.”

            “He’s my friend,” Wing argued, temper boiling up in his chest. “He’s here as my guest. He has as much right to be here as anyone.”

            The server looked down her nasal ridge at him. “I’ll decide who has rights here. Move along.”

            “Hey,” Drift muttered, nudging his elbow. “Come on. I know a place.”

            Wing was tempted to stay and argue. Who was she to decide Drift’s rights? She was only service-class like Wing—did she think that made her so much better than a buymech?

            “Come on,” Drift murmured again. “Choose your battles.”

            People were looking. Wing didn’t want to embarrass Drift by making more of a fuss. He broke the staring contest and followed Drift away. He swore he could feel the server mocking him all down the street.

            “I hate running away,” he said.

            “It’s not worth it,” Drift said. “Happens all the time. People like you don’t just ‘hang out’ with people like me. This place, they don’t care who you are as long as you can pay.”

            “This place” was a streetside stall lit by bright red and gold neon lanterns. They hopped up onto stools opposite each other and within moments that server whisked over bowls of sweet and strong energon.

            “Cheap and filling,” Drift said, raising his bowl in a mocking toast. “You’re buying. So what do you want to talk about?”

            Wing took a sip. The engex tingled all the way down. “You.”

            “While we’re eating?” His incredulous tone was perfectly executed and Wing had to laugh. “Not a lot to tell without ruining your appetite.”

            “I don’t mind,” Wing said. “I just want to know, if you’ll tell me. How long have you been doing this?”

            “Forever.”

            “Forever?” Wing frowned over his bowl. “You’ve never had a job?”

            “Never,” Drift said. “See, speedsters like me are a dime a dozen. Kind of like couriers.” Wing gave a wry smile. There was another of his frametype right down the street. “Just not as useful. So I’ve been living like this. I sell my body to anyone who can pay, and it’s usually enough to keep the tank off empty. When things get really desperate, well… it just gets a little more literal. They’ll pay a lot for a racer at the relinquishment clinic.”

            Wing stopped his bowl halfway to his mouth. “You…”

            “The frame gets a good wash and they’re required to keep it fueled,” Drift said with a shrug. “Plus the pay is nice. It’s a good deal.”

            “And they put your Spark in a vacuum?”

            Drift shrugged unconcernedly.

            “What’s it like?” Wing asked, engex forgotten.

            Drift frowned. “Mh… you ever done Syk?”

            “No.”

            “Circuit boosters?”

            “No.”

            “Well, it’s like that,” Drift said. He stared somewhere into the middle distance. “For a little while, it all goes away. You’re not hungry, you’re not cold, and you’re not hurting. Just you and oblivion. That’s what it’s like. And then you’re back here again.” His eyes roved over the dirty street, the crowd, with something like disgust. “Everything good ends sometime.”

            Wing couldn’t find anything to say to that. The life Drift was running from, the things he did to escape it… it wasn’t fair. None of it was.

            Drift took a hard swallow of engex as if to banish the memories. “So,” he said. “Your turn. Tell me about flying. What’s it like?”

            Wing grabbed the change of subject with both hands. Anything to wipe that resignation off Drift’s face.

            Wing almost forgot to keep track of his chronometer while they talked. The flow of the street washed around them and the engex was warm in his tank, making everything a little brighter and a little louder, a pleasant haze occasionally punctuated by Drift’s sharp laughter. But finally he put his bowl down for the last time.

            “Looks like my time’s up,” he said reluctantly. Drift blinked at him in puzzlement, then caught up.

            “Oh. Right.” He drained the last of his bowl.

            Wing blinked down at his own. How many had gone by? He’d been distracted by the conversation. He flagged down the server and paid for the drinks.

            “Sure you don’t want to come back to my place?” Drift said. His energy field reached out to flirt with the edge of Wing’s.

            “Can’t,” Wing said ruefully. “I’m cleaned out.”

            “Oh.” For a second he thought Drift looked a little guilty, but that might have been the engex doing weird things to him. “Yeah. I guess.” But when they climbed off their stools, he reached out and hooked his fingers around Wing’s audial fins, tugging him forward into a heated kiss. Wing could taste the engex on his tongue. _Fast learner_ , he thought, dazed, as the world spun.

            “On the house,” Drift purred. Wing found a silly grin on his face as he sagged slightly into Drift’s hold. “You sure you’ll be okay getting home? Where do you live anyway?”

            “Third district,” Wing said, still distracted by the echo of Drift’s lips on his. “I’ll be fine.”

            But even as he said it, his knees wobbled. Maybe he’d underestimated the strength of that engex while they were both sitting down.

            “You can’t fly around like this. I’ll take you back to my place, you can sleep it off there. _And_ I’ll pay you back for the drinks.”

            “Yeah, but… I…” There was some sort of argument he should make, right? But he had the morning’s shift cycle off and it seemed like too much effort to fly and he liked the way Drift was holding him. “Okay. Yeah.”

            He could walk upright with Drift’s arm wrapped around his waist for support. He snuggled happily into Drift’s side, watching the bright world whirl past. The crowds gradually thinned and the going got easier as they neared the Dead End. But then Drift stopped, and Wing kept going for a step, and only Drift’s arm kept him from toppling over. He blinked at the mech standing in front of them.

            “Is there a problem, officer?” Drift said. That tone of awful resignation was back in his voice.

            “Care to explain the situation here?” the officer said.

            “We had some drinks,” Drift said flatly. “I’m taking him home to rest. That against the law now?”

            The officer looked him over in obvious suspicion. He leaned towards Wing, and in an entirely different tone, he asked, “Would _you_ care to tell me? It’s all right, I’m security forces.” He flashed his badge. “Do you need help?”

            “I’m fine,” Wing said, pulling himself together, but still confused. “It’s just the engex.”

            He got a ping as the officer scanned his ID.

            “Third district,” the cycle said. He eyed Drift again and stepped forward, reaching for Wing. “A little out of my jurisdiction, but I’ll escort you home.”

            “What?” Wing shook off a bit more of the overcharged fuzz. “No… no. I don’t need an escort. I’m going with Drift.”

            “Listen, it’s my job to look out for your safety,” the officer argued. “This isn’t where you want to be.”

            Another of those looks at Drift, and Wing knew exactly what he meant. He gripped Drift’s arm so he could stand up straight. First that server, now this. He’d had enough of this pitslag for one day.

            “Thank you, officer,” he said coldly. “I understand your concern. But Drift is my friend, and I’m safe with him. May we go, or are we under arrest?”

            The officer stepped back, indecision twisting his mouth. “Go on,” he said. Wing got another ping: a private message.

            _Here’s my frequency if you need it –Springarm._

            Wing jerked his head in a nod and leaned pointedly on Drift, though he was doing most of the work as they walked away.

            “You didn’t do either of us any favors there,” Drift said, but there was an impressed note in his harmonics.

            “And people _always_ treat you like that? Like… like a criminal?”

            “Well, I…” Drift said, but stopped. “Yeah. Yeah, they do. Unless they want something. People always want something.”

            Wing barely even noticed the smell as Drift let him back to the squat. And he barely even thought about the rust and who knows what else when he blinked and found himself on his back on the berth with Drift kissing a line down his neck.

            “I don’t have any money,” he said helplessly, even as he opened up to Drift’s hands.

            “This one’s on me,” Drift murmured into his mouth, and then his fingers slid into Wing’s valve and there were no more words.

            Afterwards Wing was too exhausted to even notice if Drift had overloaded; he felt a faint tired twinge of disappointment that he hadn’t had the concentration to give Drift all the touch and effort that he deserved, but he was already half in stasis and his hand, reaching down half-heartedly to reciprocate, was captured by Drift’s and raised to the buymech’s lips.

            “People always want something,” Drift said quietly. “What do you want from me, Sunstrike?”

            “I just,” Wing said sleepily, not even sure if he was speaking out loud, “want you to smile.”

            He heard Drift’s murmuring voice as if from a long distance as lips brushed his palm.

            “Liar.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not all fun and games.

            Wing’s internal alarm pulled him kicking and screaming into bleary wakefulness. His body was quick to let him know it wanted more recharge and didn’t appreciate the overindulgence he’d put it through last night.

            _Last night!_

            He had the sense to hold perfectly still while it all came back to him. Drinking with Drift, talking, laughing. Getting stopped, staggering back to Drift’s squat—here—feeling his back hit the berth, Drift’s fingers inside him…

            The alarm nagged him again. He checked his chronometer and frowned. He’d slept the morning away, and now the alarm was telling him to get ready for an afternoon shift cycle. No matter how much his head was pounding, no matter how much he wanted to stay and sort out this tangle with Drift, he couldn’t.

            Speaking of Drift…

            Wing carefully onlined his optics. He was still on his back, and Drift was sprawled next to him, one arm draped heavily across Wing’s waist. Drift was frowning in his sleep, his face tucked close to Wing’s shoulder.

            Having him so close warmed Wing’s frame with desire that had nothing to do with interface. He didn’t know _what_ he wanted. But his time was up, his shanix spent, and he had no right to stay any longer, no matter how badly he wanted to.

            Wing tried to ease himself out from under Drift’s arm, but apparently Drift was hyper-aware of movement in his proximity. The other mech woke instantly, bolting upright with wild optics. Wing froze. Then Drift seemed to catch up to his instincts. He jerked away from Wing as though he carried a rust plague, putting his back to the wall.

            “So this is when civilized mechs get up,” he said. His vocalizer was staticky with exhaustion and, once he relaxed, he looked as tired as Wing felt.

            “I have to go,” Wing said. Even the air between them felt awkward. “Work.”

            “So go,” Drift said. Wing still hesitated, until his chrono pinged him again.

            “Last night,” he began. “I owe—”

            “You paid for my time.”

            “But, um. After that…”

            Drift made an impatient noise, his habitual scowl deepening. “You paid for my time. You bought me fuel. We’re square. Okay?”

            Wing’s Spark sank. So it had been just another transaction after all.

            “Don’t start expecting freebies,” Drift said.

            “I wasn’t.”

            Drift held his gaze, searching, like he was trying to catch Wing out. “Because some bots, they think if they’re regulars, if they’re nice, they start expecting favors. Think it’s fun, getting something for free that everyone else has to pay for.”

            “That’s… that’s not what I…”

            “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

            Wing checked his chrono again. He’d barely have time to fly home, scrub with a wet cloth—no time for the washracks—and get to work. But he _couldn’t_ leave on this note.

            “Thanks for last night,” he said instead. “I had a good time.”

            “Great. Spread the word.”

            “Can we do that again sometime? Just talk?”

            “You know where to find me.” Drift’s expression softened. Not quite to a smile, but not hostile. “See you round, Funstripe.”

            Wing laughed. Then, on a burst of confidence, he said, “My friends call me Strike.”

            “Good for them,” Drift said, turning over to flop down facing the wall. “Now will you _please_ go away? Trying to recharge here. We can’t all be diurnal.”

 

* * *

 

           It would be nice to go a whole week without thinking about Sunstrike. He’d almost managed it the first time. After the jet left, Drift had thought about him for three nights. Every customer he took, he just turned off his optics and thought about the jet’s eyes and bam, gave his best performance ever.

            Then he’d started getting over it. Filed Wing into a box in his memory labeled “check to get revved up” and thought that was it. But no, he’d come back, with the same ridiculous amount of shanix, and for what? Sitting around, buying Drift’s fuel, and in exchange all he wanted was small talk?

            Easiest. Mark. _Ever_.

            Drift was still suspicious. Wing was playing some angle. He’d get bored, forget about Drift. After all, who was Drift? A bottom-caste buymech from the wrong part of town. A speedster’s cute body and a few kinky tricks. Not even worth getting grabbed by the chopshops for parts.

            And who was Wing? One of thousands of identical couriers. Government property with delusions of freedom, who took the scraps the upper castes gave him, turned around, and fed them to a buymech for kicks. A pretty smile. Not much to get worked up over.

            He figured it was temporary. Wing would quit coming around when the novelty wore off, leaving Drift with a nice little fantasy to enhance his act for his other clients. The ones who actually knew how to use a buymech.

            But Wing _kept showing up_. There’d be a few days between his visits, sometimes more than a week, but he’d appear with some more shanix and ask to take Drift out for a drink. Sometimes they’d go back to Drift’s squat, or a shadowy alley, and Drift would do something he was a lot better at than talking. And Wing would stagger home, and Drift would stick the jet’s money in his subspace and try to forget about him for another few days.

            He could deal with this until Wing inevitably got bored. Let the jet buy his fuel and his time. He was a good enough actor to pretend to like it.

            Was he good enough to hide how much he _did_ like it?

            It made Drift’s head hurt, thinking about it. It would be so much easier if Wing were awful. Yet here they were again, sitting at their favorite streetside stall, and Drift was getting a little too captivated by the way Wing’s fins moved as he told his story.

            “—and he was so angry he pulled his blaster, and I thought I’d delivered my last message!” Wing laughed. Drift grinned with him. It was one of those stories that got a lot funnier in hindsight—he had a few of those himself—and especially after a few drinks. “And his accent was so thick I could barely understand a _word_ he was shouting, and his whole gang was getting worked up, and I thought that was it.”

            “Yeah, Thunderhoof’s a nasty character,” Drift said. “So how’d you get out of there?”

            “I swear I can’t make this up—he grabbed me by the back of the neck and lifted me right off the ground—”

            “You’re screwing with me.”

            “I’m serious, _right_ off the ground, and he gave me a shake. He was still hollering something I couldn’t even understand, and he just _threw_ me. I was flying out of there before I even hit the ground!”

            “And he didn’t even pay you.” Drift always focused on the important things.

            “Yeah, Windstream wasn’t happy! But I told her there was no _way_ I was going back there again—we’ve lost enough couriers carrying messages for the gangs.”

            Drift laughed, taking another drink. “You know what? I think you’re making it up.”

            “I am not!”

            “I don’t believe a _word_.”

            Wing grinned. “What, don’t you have any crazy stories? I find that hard to believe. I thought you’d seen it all.”

            “If I told you _half_ the stuff I’ve seen, Funstripe, you’d short-circuit. Doesn’t even faze me anymore.” He switched his empty cube for Wing’s, just to hear the jet’s indignant squeak, and took a long drink to prolong the moment. “You know, I do remember my first day on the job.”

            “You do?” Wing’s grin shrank. Look at him, expecting some sob story to tell his friends.

            “Yeah,” Drift said. “I got myself as clean as I could, picked a nice street corner, and went to work. I stayed out two hours, then went home and counted my money.”

            He could tell Wing wasn’t sure if he was supposed to ask. “How much did you get?”

            “One hundred twenty point five shanix.”

            Wing frowned, right on cue: “Who gave you point five shanix?”

            Drift couldn’t help it. He cracked a smile. “They _all_ did.”

            Wing’s mouth dropped open in a sort of half-offended gasp that turned into a laugh. “You’re joking.”

            “A little buymech humor,” Drift said, finishing off the bowl. Wing’s laughter made him feel weird inside. Normally he didn’t like people laughing at him, but in this case, it was infectious.

            Wing’s giggles eased off, but he was still grinning when he propped his chin on his hand, gazing at Drift in something alarmingly close to admiration. He chuckled again.

            “Gonna laugh about that all night?” Drift asked. “It wasn’t _that_ funny.”

            “Oh… it’s not that, now,” Wing said. “I’ve just never seen you smile like that before.”

 

* * *

 

            “So when are you going to introduce us?” Lightwave asked.

            “Wait, what?” Wing laughed nervously, trying to shrug it off, but Lightwave draped her arm around his shoulders, half-dragging him—they’d finished their rounds and arrived back at the courier headquarters at the same time, and he couldn’t escape now.

            “Come on, Strike. You’ve been floating for weeks. I wanna meet them already.”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, even though an image of Drift’s smile intruded onto his thoughts. He couldn’t stop his own smile from curving his lips.

            “See?! That! That right there! That’s what I’m talking about!” Lightwave cried, pointing at his mouth.

            “What, that I’m smiling? I always smile.” He managed to extricate himself from her hold. “I’m just in a good mood from making good tips.”

            “Yeah, and another thing? You haven’t been coming out with us. We miss you. If you’re not messing around with someone, why aren’t you hanging out at Maccadam’s anymore? Tell me that.”

            “I already told you, I’m saving.”

            “Saving for what?”

            “Just… saving!” Wing dodged a playful shove. “You’d be in a good mood too if you had some spare shanix for once.”

            Lightwave sighed. “Strike… I just… I’m a little concerned, okay?”

            They stopped walking, far enough from Windstream’s door that she couldn’t overhear.

            “Concerned?”

            “There’s a lot going on.” Lightwave dropped her voice even further. “This Decepticon stuff… Look, I know you’ve been spending a lot of time in Fifth District.”

            “Have you been—”

            “I’m not _following_ you, I’ve just, you know, I’ve seen which way you’re headed.” She rubbed the back of her head. “Strike… I just want to ask… you’re not… _involved_ in all this stuff.” Her voice went all the way down to a whisper. “This Decepticon stuff. You’re not… one of _them_ , are you?”

            Wing frowned. Of all the directions he’d thought this conversation might go, this wasn’t one of them. He’d expected her to keep prying into his love life, not this. And while he was glad she wasn’t pushing about that—he still wasn’t sure how, or if he even wanted, to explain Drift to his coworkers—where had this come from? He knew _about_ the Decepticons. He’d seen them protesting on street corners, he’d seen their graffiti on walls, their emblem. Their catchphrase: _you are being deceived_. He’d even read their manifesto, in secret, out of curiosity—a dangerous trait in a courier. It had made a terrifying amount of sense to him, even more since he’d met Drift, seen up-close what life was like for bots on the street.

            “What if I said I am?”

            “Not so loud!” Lightwave looked up and down the empty hall. “There’s ears everywhere.”

            “You sound like Deluge.”

            “Well, maybe I’ve been listening to him more than I should,” she said.

            “It’s not _illegal_ to be a Decepticon.”

            “Not _yet_ ,” she pointed out. “They’re not even an official political party. Just thugs.”

            “That’s a little strong, Lightwave. What’s your point?”

            “My point is it’s getting dangerous out there. The Decepticons might not be illegal but they’re definitely on the Senate’s bad side. Who are we, Strike?”

            “Couriers.”

            “ _Senate_ couriers, Strike. Our minds are government property, remember? They can look in and see things—”

            “How much _have_ you been listening to Deluge?”

            “You left me _alone_ with him, remember?! Flitting off to Fifth District all the time. People _disappear_ from there, Strike. I’m dead serious. This isn’t Deluge, this is facts. People are disappearing. Nobody knows where, or how, but we’re all pretty sure why.”

            Wing said nothing. His first thought was Drift. What if Drift disappeared? Who would notice? Who would care?

            _I’d care_.

            “I just…” Lightwave sighed. “I’d rather hear that you’ve met someone really cute and you’re totally obsessed with them. Because the other theory is that you’re out there…” She whispered again like it was a forbidden word. “… _protesting_ , and I don’t want anything to happen to you, Strike. Not after Stormfront, and Rainswept, and Skybright.”

            “I…” Wing wanted to reassure her, but his throat got caught somewhere on the way to _met someone really cute and I’m totally, completely, madly, head-over-heels obsessed with him_. Instead he said, “I’m all right. I promise. It’s nothing like that.”

            “You promise?”

            “One hundred percent.”

            She stared at him with narrowed optics for another minute, then shrugged. “Okay. Well. Now that I’ve sounded like a nutcase and said my piece, we should probably get in there before Windstream blows a gasket. Deluge must be driving her wild by now. This is why I need a buffer zone, Strike, I need backup sometimes…”

            But when they went into the office, only Windstream was waiting for them.

            “Finally,” she said, holding out her hands for their stacks of return pads.

            “Deluge isn’t here?” Lightwave asked.

            “Not yet.” Windstream jerked the stack of datapads out of Wing’s hands and started sorting violently, grumbling subvocally about flaky workers and nutty conspiracy theorists.

            “Maybe he’s still wrapping up,” Wing suggested. “First District has been busy lately.”

            “Or maybe he’s taking _somebody’s_ example and flitting off without handing in his return messages until tomorrow,” Windstream said pointedly. Wing shifted. He only did that once in a while, on days when he couldn’t wait to see Drift and didn’t want to get intercepted by Lightwave and Deluge. Apparently he’d been right to be paranoid. He wouldn’t put it past them to follow him. But at least he always sent a message to let her know. He never vanished without saying anything.

            “Should we wait for him…?” Lightwave asked uncertainly.

            The door tone buzzed. Windstream opened it remotely.

            “What?” she snapped, but her expression changed in an instant. A mech with an enforcer’s badge came inside, steering a courier-model jet by the shoulder.

            “Deluge!” Lightwave said. He looked at her blankly.

            “Who are you?”

            Lightwave took a step back. Wing’s Spark went cold, then hot, burning through all his systems. Windstream stood with her lips pressed into a line.

            “His registration says he works here,” the enforcer said. “He says he can’t remember.”

            “What do you mean, he can’t remember?”

            Deluge looked around the small office with interest. “It _seems_ familiar,” he said slowly.

           “Deluge,” Windstream snapped, then paused, vented an air cycle, and continued in a marginally gentler voice. “What happened?”

            The other jet shrugged.

            “He was wandering the streets around the Senate,” the enforcer said. “Security called me in, thought he was up to something. He wouldn’t tell me anything, so I looked up his registration.”

            “Show me your ports,” Windstream said. Deluge held out his arm, sliding open his hardline casing as he did every day. She hooked up to him. Wing squirmed in sympathy. Windstream had the authority to override a few of their basic security measures, in case of emergency, but it wasn’t a comfortable sensation. Lightwave caught his eye, but she didn’t dare say anything.

            After a long minute of tense silence, Windstream disconnected and shut her arm with a snap.

            “Nothing,” she announced to the room. “He’s totally wiped.”

            “Wiped?” Wing said.

            “How?” Lightwave demanded. “Who—why would they—there’s not a mark on him! How?!”

            “You two should go,” Windstream said, her tone clipped. “Let me deal with this.”

            It was a dismissal, not a suggestion. Wing took Lightwave’s arm and led her out. She didn’t say anything until they were halfway down the hall, and even then, it was via internal comm.

            _/They got him. I don’t know how, but they got him./_

_/Who?/_ Wing asked uneasily. He’d never really bought into Deluge’s conspiracies, but this…

            _/I know it sounds stupid… I know what you’re thinking… but they must have gotten to him, he must have been right about something…/_

_/Who?/_

_/You know who!/_

The situation was anything but funny, and still Wing snorted, because the idea was too ridiculous. _/What, this ‘Institute’ he’s always going on about?/_

_/What do we do? If even First District isn’t safe for us anymore…/_

_/Windstream won’t do anything. You know her./_

            His wings twitched; suddenly the hallway felt claustrophobic. He felt eyes on him everywhere. He needed to get out of here—he needed to see Drift. He didn’t have enough shanix for a long visit, but even a little while, just for reassurance.

            “Look,” he said out loud. “I need to go.”

            “Now?” Lightwave said. “Even after what’s happened? Strike… remember what I told you…” She cut off, as if afraid to even mention it.

            “I’ll be safe,” Wing said. “I promise. I just… I need to go.”

 

* * *

 

            He felt only slightly better in the air. They had lost couriers before, like Lightwave said. Stormfront, Rainswept, Skybright. And every time, it brought home how precarious their life was. To someone like Drift, it seemed they lived in perfect security, in the lap of luxury. A paying job, an apartment, the chance to see the sun. But they were still service-class, and apparently someone thought they were disposable. What if _he_ disappeared next? If he vanished without a trace, what would Windstream do? Shrug and put out a call for a replacement.

            What would Drift do? Maybe it was selfish to hope that it would make some sort of impact. But Drift might not even notice. He’d find some other customers to pay for his fuel, and in a few days, he’d forget all about Wing.

            _I don’t want to be forgotten_ , a plaintive voice whispered in his Spark.

            Maybe that was why he felt he _needed_ to see Drift right now. To reassure himself that someone would notice if he was gone.

            He went straight to Drift’s squat. That was dangerous—Drift had discouraged him from coming down here alone, away from the busy streets. But he figured it was early enough that Drift might not have left yet. Hopefully he wasn’t… occupied. The last thing Wing wanted was to sit alone outside Drift’s squat and listen to him entertaining.

            But nobody leapt out at him from the shadows. No ‘Institute’ goons came to kidnap him. Nobody was even around to look at him.

            Drift’s door was, as usual, hidden behind wall panels and assorted junk, but today it was even more thorough. Wing had to exert himself pushing things aside. In another mood he would have stopped to think, and probably turned around. If Drift was so dead-set against company, he would normally have respected that. But not today. Today he needed to see Drift. _Needed_ it.

            He stopped to listen. Silence from inside the squat. No clanging of metal, no scraping of plates. He hesitated, then knocked on the last sheet.

            “Drift? Are you there?”

            Only the silence answered. Maybe Drift wasn’t even in. Then Wing would wait for him. What if he came back with a customer? Too late to think about that now.

            “Drift?” he called again. He heard something, when he pressed his audial sensors to the makeshift door. A faint groan. “Drift, are you all right?”

            He listened intently—no other noise. Just that groan, like he was hurt.

            “Sorry,” he whispered, sure that Drift wouldn’t approve of him forcing his way through the barricaded door, but he could be hurt. He squeezed through the gap and into the darkened squat. The smell was worse than usual, thick with purged energon and something sour Wing couldn’t name, and the acrid smoky hint of overheated circuitry.

            Dim yellow optics flickered online from knee height. Drift was huddled at the base of a wall, his legs pulled close to his chest, one arm tucked against his middle and one lying limp at his side, palm-up.

            “Strike?” The name was slurred almost beyond recognition, slow and sleepy. Wing’s Spark leapt—that was the first time Drift had used his nickname—then plummeted, because something was wrong. “Wharryou… doin here?”

            Wing pulled the “door” securely shut after him and swooped down on Drift, terrified.

            “Drift! What’s wrong?”

            “Nothinzzz wrong,” Drift slurred, his head lolling as Wing gripped his shoulders. “Nothin. ‘Sall right now.” His mouth twisted into a loose grin. “’Sfine.”

            Drift moved languidly, his legs untucking a little, and something rolled and clinked against Wing’s foot. He picked it up—a depressed syringe. A cold, sick weight settled into his fuel tank.

            “You’re on Syk,” he guessed.

            “Mm,” Drift hummed in agreement. “Y’missed the fun part.”

            He was filthier than usual, coated in grime, dried transfluid—probably his own, from the splash pattern—flaking off his torso. How long had he _been_ like this?

            His head lolled towards his right, where his battered storage crate sat half-open. He reached out an uncoordinated hand to fish around inside. “Wan’ some?”

            Wing shook his head. “No.”

            “’Sfine,” Drift insisted, pulling out a syringe a quarter-full of oily greenish fluid. “Got a little left. Won’ even make you pay. Free fr you, Strike.”

            “I don’t want it,” Wing said, his voice catching. “Drift… Drift, what can I do?”

            “Suit yrself,” Drift said, dropping the syringe back into his crate; his hand caressed the battered lid but failed to fix it on properly as it flopped down to his side.

            “Come on,” Wing said, taking his arm as gently as he could and shifting into a sturdier position. “Let’s get you to the berth.”

          “No!” The sudden cry startled Wing. Drift struggled, squirming away from his hands. “Don’… don’ _want_ …”

            “Drift—I’m just trying to—”

            Drift thrashed with Syk’s violent strength, leaving a wicked dent in Wing’s face and sending him sprawling half-against the opposite wall. “No! Don’ want it…! Don’ _want_ …”

            Wing held up his hands in surrender. “Okay! Okay, Drift. Forget it. You can stay there.”

            The sick feeling in his tanks rose up to strangle him as he realized his mistake. The reason Drift had barred his door so securely. There were others down here who would be quick to take advantage of Drift’s drugged state, once the rush wore off and he entered the slump. On a berth, on the floor, against a wall, it wouldn’t matter to them.

            Drift’s mood swung back around and his hand cast blindly towards the direction he’d shoved Wing.

            “Strike? Where…”

            “Here,” Wing said, scooting over to him. He reached up and touched Drift’s hand. Drift wrapped their fingers together with almost painful strength. Wing allowed himself to stroke Drift’s face, and the other mech leaned into it with a little moan.

            “What can I do?” Wing whispered.

            Drift’s optics kept shifting focus, sometimes on him, sometimes past him. They were wide, seeing lights and colors invisible to Wing. “Y’r… shining, Strike. C’n… see righ’ through you.” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Don’ think y’r real.”

            “I’m real,” Wing promised. “I’m here, Drift. Right here with you.” He shifted, reaching across Drift for the storage crate. “You want some energon?”

            Drift made a faint noise of protest, but as easily as Syk gave him strength, it could take it away. His weak pushing on Wing’s arm barely registered. “’S _mine_ ,” he whined as Wing opened his storage crate.

            “I know,” Wing said. “I won’t take anything.”

            He avoided touching the awful syringe and the two black cylinders he knew to be circuit boosters, instead lifting out a cube to tip against Drift’s lips. “Here. Drink.”

            Drift pulled a face. “Won’…”

            “Try,” Wing said.

            Drift’s lips parted and Wing managed to pour in a dribble of fuel. Drift swallowed twice, then coughed. Wing jerked out of the way as Drift keeled half-over, shuddering, and purged what little was still in his tank.

            “Waste,” Drift muttered sadly. Wing made sure Drift could see him shut the crate.

            “I’m sorry,” he said. “You knew that would happen, didn’t you? You tried to tell me. I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before.”

            Drift’s head rocked forward in what might have been a nod. He curled against the wall again.

            “Let’s get you cleaned up,” Wing said, but when he started to move away to look for a rag, Drift made a Sparkbroken sound, reaching for him.

            “Don’t go.”

            Wing took his hand again and Drift pulled him close as he could, resting his forehead against Wing’s.

            “Don’t go,” he whispered, surprisingly clear.

            “I’m not going anywhere,” Wing said. “I was only—”

            “People always leave,” Drift whispered, the back of his head settling against the wall with a click. “Always.”

            “Not me,” Wing said. “I promise, Drift. I won’t leave you.”

            “Y’r a liar,” Drift breathed, his optics going dim and glassy again.

           “I won’t leave,” Wing said again, but Drift had moved into the next stage, the oblivion, and was past hearing.

            Wing huddled beside him, wrapping his arms around his knees and burying his face in them. Only the faint hum of Drift’s systems and the nauseous prickle of his EM field itching against Wing’s, making him sick and uneasy, said he was still alive.

            For a moment Wing found it tempting. He’d never in his life yearned so strongly for everything to just… stop. Just go away. Everything that had happened today, he wanted it to end. Deluge’s lost memory, Lightwave’s concern about the Decepticons, the fear and helplessness, Drift—he wanted to forget it all.

            The syringe in the storage crate taunted him. One jab. And for a while he’d be free.

            _“For a little while, it all goes away. You’re not hungry, you’re not cold, and you’re not hurting. Just you and oblivion. That’s what it’s like.”_

            Maybe Deluge was the lucky one after all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings are confusing. That's why Drift normally doesn't mess with them.

            Wing’s exhausted doze was finally interrupted when Drift lurched upright, staggered over to the window, and purged the remainder of the Syk from his systems until he was dry-heaving and shaking so hard he slipped off the window frame and collapsed.

            When Drift’s systems were back under control, Wing was crouching next to him with a scrap of cloth and an energon cube.

            Drift grabbed the scrap and wiped stale energon off his chin. His voice was rough and staticky. “What the frag are you doing here?” he rasped. Queasy fear burned in his Spark—if Wing could get in, _anyone_ could get in, and there was a lot he didn’t remember about last night. He covered it up with anger. “ _How_ the frag did you get in here?”

            “I’m sorry,” Wing said. “I know I shouldn’t have. But I was worried about you… I thought you might be hurt.”

            “And found me lying there and decided, what the frag, time for some fun?” Drift spat, grabbing the energon and downing half the cube in a few quick swallows. And here he’d started to think that the jet was too fragging _nice_ to pull that kind of thing, started to actually look _forward_ to seeing him—frag, half the times he’d jerked off during the rush he’d been thinking about him.

            “No!” Wing jerked back like Drift had slapped him. “I didn’t—I would _never_ —I _swear_ I didn’t—”

            Drift snorted, nursing his cube like he thought Wing might take it away. “Lucky my diagnostics agree with you.” He took another drink. Hopefully the jet had more energon on him because Drift felt like he hadn’t fueled in days.

            _Oh, wait. I haven’t_.

            His second self-disgnostic confirmed the first—he hadn’t overloaded in the past few hours, his spike and valve were both untouched. In this _particular_ case, Wing was telling the truth. Drift’s paranoia started to ebb.

            “So if you didn’t come for a frag, why _are_ you here?” he asked, when the knot of fear had subsided and he could talk without biting Wing’s head off. Wing handed him another cube, which went a long way towards making Drift feel better about this morning.

            “I…” Wing looked down, wrapping his arms around himself. “I had a bad day.”

            Drift snorted. _That_ was rich, coming from Wing. How bad could any day be in his perfectly monotonous service-class life?

            “Why’d you stick around? Not like I could make it better.”

            “You asked me to,” Wing said. It was all hazy, but when Drift thought about it, he _might_ remember saying something like that. “I didn’t want to leave you… like that. I didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

            Drift stared at him. Something weird was happening in his Spark, like a slow surge of heat, creeping up his throat and down to his fingers. _Probably the Syk hangover_ , he told himself weakly, but he knew better. He’d had Syk hangovers before. He’d never felt like _this._ Another self-diagnostic reported no temperature malfunctions or other oddities. This was something different.

            _Maybe he’s…_

            Drift looked into those big gold optics and for the first time, he thought… maybe Wing _wasn’t_ playing him. Maybe he was… telling the truth.

            The pounding in his processor interrupted his half-formed conclusions and he snorted, tearing his optics away from Wing and taking another swig of energon.

            Finally he squinted at the window. He’d been too busy purging to notice the light level.

            “Hey… don’t you have somewhere to be?”

            Wing shifted anxiously, glancing at the window too. “Um. I do have work today, but I didn’t want to…”

            “You crazy? I’m not worth losing your job over.” Stupid jet! Drift wouldn’t give up a night’s income just to spend time with someone.

            “That’s debatable,” Wing said.

            Drift didn’t even know what to say to that. He growled at Wing instead. “Go. Earn your decent living. I’ve had Syk hangovers before, I can handle it.”

            Wing moved to the door like he was reluctant to leave, which didn’t usually happen in Drift’s squat. He’d shoved the door panels wide enough to squeeze through when Drift, on impulse, called after him.

            “Hey, Strike…”

            Wing turned right away, his optics glittering bright, a little smile on his lips. Oh. Right. _My friends call me Strike._

Drift’s mouth twisted, which was almost a smile, kind of. “Thanks for… thanks.”

            Wing’s smile softened and he opened his mouth.

            “Now get _out_ of here, you’ll be late,” Drift snapped, and Wing just gave him a helpless smile and flitted out.

            Drift snorted and swallowed the rest of the energon Wing had left. It helped ease the hollow feeling Syk left in his core. But his mouth was tingling weirdly. He touched his fingertips to his lips.

            Weird.

            He’d come to expect that Wing would want to kiss him. Kissing wasn’t one of Drift’s better tricks. It seemed too intimate for the gutters. It wasn’t what his customers paid for, and he didn’t particularly want to stick his face into theirs, but it was like Wing had this weird fascination with Drift’s mouth, the way he was always getting after it. And kissing Wing was… nice. Lately it gave him this fluttery feeling he couldn’t get from any drugs.

            But he hadn’t gotten one kiss from Wing this morning, and here he was, standing like an idiot with his fingertips on his lips, frowning at the door.

            He’d just have to get a few extras next time.

           

* * *

 

            The Syk always threw his recharge schedule out of whack for a few days. Drift spent a restless afternoon alternately dozing and lying awake on his berth, staring at the stained ceiling. Finally, when he judged it was late afternoon, he rolled off the berth with a groan, cleaned himself enough for the Dead End, and headed out.

            It was earlier than he usually started, and the crowds hadn’t really started to gather yet. So he hung out at the shadowy edge of an alley, trying not to attract too much attention until nightfall. And look at his luck: what should come zipping down the street but a courier model. His favorite courier model, in fact.

            “Strike! Hey, Strike!”

            Wing turned towards him, his eyes scanning the crowd until he spotted Drift. It was easy to tell when he did because a huge smile blossomed across his faceplates. He seemed to skip through the crowd until he was right there, grinning.

            “You’re up early,” he said.

            “Had a weird night,” Drift said. He’d been thinking about that mouth instead of sleeping, so he leaned in to try for a kiss. Wing leaned back, leaving him wanting.

            “I’m actually on duty,” Wing said, embarrassed, but the note of apology and longing made Drift feel better. Stupid day jobs with their stupid rules.

            “Good,” he said. “How much to deliver a message?”

            Wing’s smile came back, a little confused. “Depends. Who’s it for?”

            “Some courier,” Drift said. “You might know him. Name’s Sunstrike.”

            “Oh,” Wing said. “That guy. I know him.”

            On duty or not, his hand snuck forward to tangle with Drift’s. Drift moved forward a couple more inches, just to get more of Wing’s EM field against his.

            “Tell him…” Drift was kind of at a loss. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. But he had a few tricks in his book. He tipped his head closer to Wing’s audials. “Tell him I’d better see him tonight, or he’s not getting the present I’ve got for him. Tell him I’ve got something that’ll make him overload so hard he won’t be able to fly straight for a week.”

            Wing’s EM field _shivered_. “I’ll… I’ll let him know.”

            “And can you give him something for me?”

            Wing started to nod and opens his mouth to answer, but Drift finally seized the chance to taste him again, pressing his mouth to Wing’s and sweeping his glossa inside. Wing leaned into him, a desperate little noise of want escaping him.

            Oh, Drift wanted to drag him into the alley _right now_ and have his way with him, but he could wait a few hours.

            He broke the kiss to see Wing dazed and off-guard.

            “I’ll pass it along,” Wing said. “Do you want a reply?”

            “Charge extra for that?”

            “This one’s on me.” Wing squeezed his hand. “He says he’s looking forward to it. And he’s wondering if you want to come to his place this time.”

            Drift twitched. Wing’s place. Wing wanted him there? Most people went for a quick frag in an alley somewhere, or at _most_ a cheap hotel—he and most of the other buymechs made it policy not to go somewhere they didn’t know. Better to pass up on a few shanix than get carved up for parts. But he was pretty sure he could trust Wing not to do that. Plus Wing was looking at him with these huge expectant optics, a little unsure, expecting him to say no.

            “His place,” Drift said. “Sure.”

            Wing’s relieved EM field licked against him. “Sunstrike says to meet him here in three hours, and he’ll take you there. In case you have trouble finding it.”

            _In case you get arrested wandering into Third District alone,_ Drift translated, but he was surprised and very slightly gratified that Wing had thought of that. He was learning.

            “Sure.”

            “And he sends this,” Wing added, and practically lunged at him for another kiss, like he needed it to live.

            Drift was really starting to get the appeal of this kissing thing.

 

* * *

 

            At the end of his shift, Wing was exhausted. He and Lightwave had both had two districts to cover, while a temporary replacement Windstream had called in took the spare for Deluge, who was relearning his function. But the idea of seeing Drift—and getting what Drift had murmured into his audio earlier—pushed him through it.

            He met Drift in Fifth District and was surprised by another hungry kiss. It took all the self-control he had to take Drift home instead of finding the nearest unoccupied surface and letting Drift do whatever he wanted. The kisses were definitely getting even better with time.

            They weren’t breaking any laws, but Wing still felt furtive and mischievous bringing Drift back to his place. He wasn’t _ashamed_ of Drift—as if he _could_ be ashamed of Drift!—but he wanted to avoid awkward questions. Fortunately, they didn’t cross paths with anyone he knew. Especially Lightwave, who would never let him hear the end of it.

            It felt good to be holding Drift’s hand. It made him feel like flying.

            Once inside, Drift hovered near the door, looking around. Wing had never thought of his apartment as particularly _nice_ —one main room with a berth, table and two chairs, some storage compartments, and a tiny washrack he couldn’t even spread his wings in—but compared to Drift’s squat it was downright cozy. He’d taken some of the basic amenities for granted: a door with a lock, a proper berth with an actual cover, a working solvent shower, and lighting.

            How hard could it be, he wondered, for the Senate to build and maintain apartments like this in Fifth District? How much would it really cost them to provide basic housing so that mechs like Drift had somewhere to go at the end of the night, somewhere he didn’t have to fight to defend?

            “Nice place,” Drift said finally. If he was jealous or angry, he didn’t show it. He turned one of those wicked smiles on Wing, the ones that made him weak at the knees. “But how thick are the walls? You might wake up the neighbors, what I’ve got in mind.”

            Heat spread from Wing’s panel to his fingertips. “They won’t mind,” he said. He hoped it was true. It wouldn’t do to have someone pounding on the door in the middle of… whatever Drift wanted to do to him. “They’re louder than I am.”

            Drift grinned and came forward, herding Wing towards the berth with the ease of a born predator. His hands slid onto Wing’s hips and tugged him flush against the other mech. Their mouths met in a biting kiss. The next moment Wing gasped in surprise as Drift hefted him right off the floor. He wrapped his legs around the grounder’s waist, moaning into the kiss as their closed panels rubbed together.

            Drift settled onto the berth, sitting upright with Wing in his lap, still enjoying each other’s lips. His hands moved over the jet’s back to explore his folded wings. Wing sighed into his mouth, arching his back and extending his wings in a blatant plea for more.

            “Is this… mhh… the present?” he sighed against Drift’s lips. He squirmed as Drift’s hands explored every seam, every plane.

            “Not yet,” Drift murmured, catching Wing’s lower lip between his fangs and tugging playfully. “You’ll know it when you feel it.”

            _It feels good now!_ He squirmed as Drift petted his wings, giving them all the attention Wing could possibly want. His wings were packed with sensors, and the smooth strokes and teasing tickles were sending Wing all sorts of interesting feedback. He nuzzled Drift’s face, vents blowing hot air over the grounder’s frame. His hands wandered up to engage in their new favorite pastime: playing with Drift’s finials, up and down, pinching the sensor-riddled tips between his fingers.

            Drift groaned, burying his face in Wing’s neck and nipping his neck cables. Wing gasped, his hips twitching, and his panel clicked open. One of Drift’s hands slid down over Wing’s aft and the fingers curled between his legs, rubbing his valve rim. There was already a thin coating of lubricant.

            “You really like getting your wings touched.”

            Wing hummed his agreement, rocking against Drift’s hand. Drift grinned against his throat. A moment later Wing heard another click and felt the heat of Drift’s spike, the length of it rubbing over his valve but not yet sliding in.

            “Remember when I said I’d make you overload so hard you couldn’t fly straight for a week?”

            “I remember,” Wing said, shivering in delight.

            Drift nibbled on his neck cables again. “Haven’t showed you my mod yet, have I.”

            “You have—nnn—a mod…?”

            “Mm. Cost me a bundle. But it’s earned three times that much back.”

            Wing rocked in anticipation, trying to catch Drift’s spike on his valve, but Drift was still playing coy, just rubbing it over him— “So… are you going to show me… nn… _tonight_ , or…?”

            “Hey, you’re the one who likes to take his time,” Drift teased, grabbing Wing’s hips and reducing his squirming to a slow rock. It was maddening, having that spike rub against him but not _in_ him.

            “Please,” Wing whispered, mouthing at the base of one of the finials. “Please, please, I need you.”

            Drift’s vents hitched. “You’re something else, Strike,” he whispered hoarsely. Then he was back in control. “Ready?”

            And suddenly his spike was—oh. _Oh_. Wing whined, grinding his hips down on the faintly vibrating spike. If he tilted his hips just right he could press his external node to one of Drift’s ridges, feel it buzz against him. He gasped, rutting against it, spreading his valve lubricant over Drift’s spike as pleasure built in his core.

            Except now Drift was done with the tease, and his strong hands tilted Wing’s hips just right to finally lodge his spike at Wing’s valve and pull him down onto it. Wing shuddered, his mouth falling open in shocked pleasure, his hips stuttering as he was suddenly filled with that wonderful vibration.

            “Like my mod, huh?” Drift asked with a satisfied grin, thrusting up. Wing let out only a moan, his entire body shuddering as he began to move desperately.

            “Oh…! Oh, Dri…”

            “This one’s usually a big hit with your type,” Drift said. Wing could barely hear the words; all he knew was Drift’s tone—self-satisfied and faintly mocking—sent still more heat through him. “Look at you squirm. If this is how you react now, I wonder what this will do to you.”

            Wing bucked in shock as the vibration kicked up. Drift’s hands anchored his hips again, controlling his pace even as Wing struggled, desperate for more.

            “You’re _soaking_ ,” Drift crowed. “Primus, Strike. If I’d known a little thing like this would get you so worked up… oops!”

            The vibration intensified again. Wing writhed, oral lubricant sliding down his chin. It felt—it felt _incredible_ , stimulating sensory nodes he didn’t know he had, lighting up his whole valve. Drift reached up to wipe his lips.

            “Got you drooling, Strike. Any more of this and you might vibrate out of your own skin. If you could see yourself now, all wrecked and wriggling. Just for me. Just for me. Okay, Strike… let’s hear you sing.”

            Wing arched as the vibration turned up again. He wailed, his valve pulsing and shuddering as he overloaded harder than he’d ever done in his life. Drift’s fingers tightened on his hips and the buymech gritted his teeth, thrusting up a few more times. Wing’s head cleared just enough for him to realize what was going on. Drift was… Drift was _aroused_ , about to overload! Heat surged through him again and he rocked with renewed fervor, rippling his calipers around the deliciously vibrating spike.

            Drift swallowed a shout as his hips twitched up. Wing gasped as hot transfluid jetted into him, filling up his valve and spilling over onto Drift’s hips. Drift’s spike gradually dialed down the vibration. Wing chased it, not quite satisfied, but Drift gave a somewhat piteous groan—he had to be oversensitive after that—and Wing dragged himself reluctantly off that magnificent spike, letting Drift hastily tuck it away.

            “Drift,” he began, laced with triumph, but Drift lunged upward, shoving him onto his back.

            “Don’t you say a word,” he growled, and before Wing could decide on a comeback or a tease, Drift had ducked down between his legs and his mouth was— _oh_! Wing’s head fell back onto the berth and his legs fell open wider as Drift’s tongue ran hard over his dripping valve. He arched up, welcoming, and Drift hooked Wing’s legs over his shoulders and plunged inside, venting hot air over the area as his glossa wriggled in deep; his nasal ridge pressed against Wing’s external node.

            Wing’s fingers clenched and unclenched in the berth cover as he stared sightlessly at the ceiling, awash in pleasure. Drift’s mouth wasn’t quite as talented as his hands, but oh, when he hooked a finger in Wing’s valve to open it up wider, giving his glossa access to more nodes…! Wing melted, thrusting his hips unconsciously against Drift’s hands holding them up. Meaningless half-words spilled from his lips, sounds that almost formed Drift’s name, but all of it dissolved into silence as Drift drove him once again to overload.

            Wing lay stunned for a long minute while his systems recalibrated and his vents slowed down. Drift hadn’t moved; his head rested on Wing’s thigh, yellow optics turned up to watch Wing’s face. Wing raised his head to stare back at him, overwhelmed. He reached out to touch Drift’s finial. Drift moved at last, in a slow surge, crushing Wing to the berth and devouring his mouth. Wing moaned into it, languidly stroking Drift’s finials.

           “You overloaded,” he whispered, finally, when they could bear to break the kiss. Drift gave a wordless grunt, kissing him again. But this one was short—Wing had barely settled in when Drift pulled abruptly away. Wing tried to follow, but Drift twitched backward, coming up to his knees.

            “Should go.”

            “I…” Wing’s head whirled. “What…? Wait…” By the time his vocalizer cooperated, Drift was getting up. “Won’t you stay?”

            “No.”

            Wing leaned on one arm, reaching out with the other. “I can walk you to the—”

            “No,” Drift said again, shrugging his hand off.

            Wing felt a twinge of hurt. He’d thought… he’d thought things would somehow be different now. Things _should_ be different now… the way Drift had talked with him today, the way he’d smiled, he’d even _laughed_ …

            “Wait,” he said, desperately, and Drift paused halfway to the door. But he didn’t turn. “I…” It felt wrong, so wrong, to be asking this, so at odds with the rest of the night, but Drift had made it abundantly clear that he did nothing for free. It wasn’t like him to forget his payment. “What do I owe you?”

            Drift turned. He stood silently for a long moment, his mouth twitching occasionally like he was about to say something. Then he shrugged one shoulder.

            “Forget it. We’re square.”

            And he left Wing with a suddenly cold valve, sticky lubricants drying on his thighs, and the echoes of hungry kisses on his lips, trying to work out where he’d gone wrong.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wing confesses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a really short one.

            Drift called himself ten kinds of idiot every step of the way. He kept his head down and walked fast, but even then he could feel people looking at him askance—shocked to see something that crawled out of the gutter in their clean, lit Third District. A buymech and a leaker marring the scenery. Only a matter of time before security forces picked him up for questioning.

            He half expected it right now. Dragged to the station, shoved in a holding cell until Wing came in, pointed at him, “That’s the one, officers—he’s the one who attacked me!”

            That kind of thing happened. Upper-caste mechs fooling around with Drift’s type, then disposing of them when they got bored.

            He snarled and shook his head to clear it. Wing didn’t seem like that sort, but why else would his type hang around someone like Drift? It was just some kind of game to him, and Drift, in moments of weakness when he was hungry for someone to see him and care about him, had bought it. Walked right into it like some kind of fool.

            That part of him _wanted_ it to be real. Hoped that Wing was serious, that he wasn’t lying, that this would all play out like the cheesiest romance vid where the lowly skiv was plucked from the gutter and given a better life for the sake of love.

            That’s how they got you. The bleeders and the scrap shops and whatever monster-of-the-week was behind all the recent disappearances. They lured you in with promises of energon and warmth and safety and then you were just gone, and nobody _cared_ , not security forces, not the Senate, _nobody_.

            Drift had survived this long because he relied on himself. He didn’t letanyoneget close. He didn’t show weakness. He didn’t trust _anyone_.

            His Spark twinged and he walked faster, as close to a run as he dared. Fleeing like a coward because he’d come too close to exposing himself, showing Wing all his weaknesses. Soft. _Vulnerable_.

            Anyway, Wing had gotten what he wanted from Drift. He’d made him overload. Gotten him to enjoy it. Now that he’d reached that goal he’d get bored and stop seeking him out. Better for Drift to leave, to stop fooling himself, than to sit there in his dark squat, staring at the door and waiting for someone who would never come back. Feeling that tiny bit of hope he’d let himself have crumble with every passing day.

            He hesitated at the divide between the districts. He looked back.

            It wasn’t too late. He could turn back. Make up some excuse, go back to Wing’s place, lay himself bare and hope Wing was everything he seemed to be.

            _Trust_ Wing.

            “Never,” he snarled to himself, folded into his altmode, and kept driving.

 

* * *

 

            Wing called himself ten kinds of idiot while he gave his plating a hasty scrub. He shouldn’t have said that! Asking how much he owed, like after everything was said and done Drift was still just a buymech! But if he _hadn’t_ asked, wouldn’t Drift have assumed he was trying to get favors for free? Taking advantage of him?

            There was no easy way out. What he had to do now, _right now_ , was go after Drift, talk to him, tell him—

            His Spark twinged. _Tell him what? How you feel about him?_

            Wouldn’t Drift just laugh in his face? Something like _“your type doesn’t feel that way about people like me.”_ Wing had no reason to think Drift felt the same way. He might be reading too much into Drift’s behavior because he _wanted_ it to be true. Drift had told him straight up that he showed people what they wanted to see. It was his _job_. If he smiled at Wing, laughed with him, showed pleasure to him, it was because Wing wanted those things. It didn’t mean Drift felt about Wing the way Wing felt about him.

            Wing hesitated at the door for an agonized few minutes. He had no business going after Drift if Drift wanted to leave. He should wait for Drift to cool off. Or would that only tell Drift that Wing didn’t really are about him?

            He had to stop second-guessing. Drift wasn’t an equation he could solve by overthinking. He’d never know _what_ Drift thought or felt unless he asked, and hoped Drift wouldn’t lie to him, put on an act to please him.

            He had to go after him.

 

* * *

 

            Wing flew to Fifth District and landed just at the edge of the Dead End. The night had drawn on into its second half. There were plenty of people around, flocking down the streets on their way to Maccadam’s or any of the dozen pubs. Buymechs lurked on corners and the mouths of alleys, keeping an eye out for security forces.

            If he hurried, Drift might still be home. For the second time Wing completely disregarded Drift’s advice to never come here alone as he plunged into the warren of narrow streets and unlit alleys of the Dead End, but nobody hassled him except for a Decepticon recruiter trying to shove pamphlets in his face. Wing brushed past with a hasty apology.

            He got to Drift’s door and hesitated with his arm raised to knock. But he’d come all the way here. He felt warmer than he should, and his systems were running high. His wings twitched and he folded them tighter. Nothing for it now. He was here. Too late to run now.

            He knocked.

            At first there was no response. He waited a minute or two, then knocked again.

            He hadn’t even lowered his arm when the wall-panel “door” was wrenched violently open.

            “What?!” Drift snapped, scowling deeper than usual. He saw who it was and the expression flickered for a moment. When he spoke next it was a mutter, not a snarl, which had to be an improvement. “What do you want?”

            “To… to talk to you?”

            Drift’s engine rumbled unhappily, but he stepped back to let Wing into his squat. He seemed more self-conscious about it than he had before. It seemed even smaller and grungier after Wing’s place.

            “About what,” he muttered, after the door was replaced.

            “You… you left in a hurry, back there,” Wing said hesitantly. “Is something wrong?”

            Drift jerked his shoulders in a shrug.

            “Please,” Wing said, reaching out towards him. Drift didn’t lean away; he just stared at Wing’s hand as the fingertips brushed his arm. The silence made Wing nervous. He spoke again before it could drag on too long. “Tell me. Did I offend you, or hurt you? How can I make it—”

            “Why do you keep coming back?!”

            The sudden question caught Wing off-guard. Drift’s EM field boiled and prickled at the edge of his range.

            “I mean it, Strike, why do you keep coming back?” Drift repeated. “I’m a _buymech_ , don’t you get it?! You come to me for a quick frag because you like my style, that I can swallow. But you show up and you’re asking your questions and buying drinks and I don’t get it. I don’t _understand_ you. So cut this smiley-cheerful act and give me a straight answer. What the frag do you want from me? _Why do you keep coming back_?!”

            Wing was taken aback. His Spark surged, words queuing up in his vocalizer before he could stop them—like the warmth filling him wanted to spill over, wrap around Drift, keep him close and never let go.

            “Because,” he tried—there were so many things he wanted to say, but he needed to get this one thing right if he did nothing else right in his entire life. “Because you fascinate me. Because you’re not like anyone else I’ve ever known. Because you’re proud and stubborn and straightforward and confusing and I never know _what_ will happen when I’m with you. Because you make me feel different… better.”

            Drift’s EM field was drawn in close, but his normally taciturn face was… startled? Wary? But the words spilled out and Wing had to let them.

            “Because I care about you. Because I… I think I love you.”

            He was shaking as though he’d just flown around Cybertron twice, feverish, reckless. He’d finally bared his Spark to Drift, put it in Drift’s hands, and Drift…

            Drift was staring at him, his wary expression deepening into shock and a sort of horror. He shook his head, silently at first, and then he said, “No.”

            “No?” Wing echoed quietly, his vocalizer still raw from his confession. Now his thoughts were coming too slowly. He couldn’t process Drift’s reaction.

            “No,” Drift repeated. “Whatever you’re asking, whatever you want from me, my answer is no.”

            “I’m not…” Wing stumbled. “I just want…”

            _You, you, all I want is you, just being with you changes everything…!_

            “Whatever game you’re playing, I want out. You want a frag, you pay for it, fine. But you don’t get to…”

            “I’m not…” Wing whispered again, shaking worse than ever. His buoyant happiness was draining out of him in the face of Drift’s anger. “I wouldn’t…”

            “Nobody touches this!” Drift shouted, jabbing a finger at his own chest. “That’s the rule! That’s my _only_ rule! No one gets in my head, no one gets in my Spark!”

            “I…” Now words abandoned him completely. He backed up against Drift’s advance, towards the door. “Drift…”

            “Get out of here, Strike.” Drift took another step, his EM field lashing across Wing’s like a blow. “There’s the door.”

            Wing tried, desperately, to think of something to say. Something to stop this. But he only found despair. So he ran. His wing glanced off the edge of Drift’s door, but that sting was nothing compared to the ache in his Spark.

            He leapt into the air as soon as the sky was above him, spiraling dizzily away from the Dead End. Away from Drift, and the best thing that had almost happened to him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone tells the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're closing in on the end. I'm thinking one more chapter and an epilogue.

            It was easier to pretend with his optics off. Drift went through the motions, rocking his hips, making the right noises, pretending that he was having the time of his life. Like having someone’s spike just pistoning away was anything to scream about. Like this guy was anything compared to—

            _Fraggit. Focus on the job._

            He squeezed down his calipers, faking a moan. Not his best performance. He was just so _bored_. Not a bit revved up, and it was making his valve ache. He reached for fantasy as he usually did. And what he got was the memory of hands moving over his armor, along his seams. Someone trying his hardest to make Drift feel it—

            Why was it, when he tried to call up a daydream to get off, it was always _him_?

            But it was working—Drift’s valve was finally lubricating and his hips rocked with more desire, and a moan slipped out more genuine than before.

            “Nnh… yeah… Str…”

            He bit down before the name could slip out, and didn’t open his mouth again until the guy was finished with him and he had the money in hand. Drift hadn’t overloaded, not in three nights. His circuits buzzed in frustration. He wanted to pop some Syk and lie back and forget the whole thing for a while. Needed to get that damn jet out of his head. That was his rule. No one in his head, no one in his Spark.

            And then that fragging jet had come along. That idiot, almost getting himself killed, following Drift home and treating him like… like a person, like someone worth the effort. _Nobody_ did that. People like him didn’t get involved with people like Drift. It was some stupid game, that was all. Some bet with his friends to pass his middle-caste time.

            Well, Drift wasn’t playing. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Wasn’t so hung up on him that Strike filled his every waking thought and most of his dreams.

            “ _Fraggit_.”

 

* * *

 

            Someone knocked. Wing didn’t want to get up. He was comfortable here, in his little nest, alone.

            Probably Lightwave again. She’d been by yesterday, talking through the door, asking if he was okay. Wing had asked her to go away. He wanted to be alone for a while. He barely had the strength to go to work for the past few days. Once his rounds were finished, he’d gone straight home.

            More knocking. Wing groaned, burying his face in the berth cover.

            “Go away,” he called, his voice cracking.

            There was a minute or so of silence. Wing curled up tighter. He didn’t want to go anywhere tonight. Just drink some energon and get some recharge and do it all over again tomorrow… what was the point?

            Knocking.

            Wing threw off the thermal blanket he’d been curled up under and slammed his feet onto the floor. Couldn’t they let him be? Couldn’t they see he just wanted to be left _alone_ for a while?!”

            “Go away!” he cried, storming to the door. “I don’t want to talk about it! Just leave me alone!”

            After a moment’s silence, a muffled voice spoke from the hallway.

            “Um. Strike. It’s me.”

            Wing stared at the door. Guilt and panic and embarrassment warred in his Spark. _Why is he here?! What does he want?_

            Finally he opened the door. He met Drift’s optics for a second, then looked down, unable to hold his gaze.

            “I thought you were…” he muttered to Drift’s feet. Drift shifted his weight, awkward and out of place in the clean hallway.

            “Uh. Hey.”

            Wing stepped back to clear the doorway. “You want to…?”

            Drift came inside and Wing shut the door behind him.

            “So, um…” Drift’s optics did a quick sweep of the room. Wing was suddenly very conscious of the empty cubes littering the floor by the bed, his rumpled blanket nest, the stuffiness of a room that hadn’t had a window open in days. “How’ve you… been?”

            Wing shrugged, staring at his feet. “You know. Just… working.”

            “Yeah,” Drift said, awkwardly. “Me too.” The strained silence went on a few seconds while Wing tried to work up his courage. “Look, Strike, there’s something I—”

            “It’s okay,” Wing interrupted. “I get it. And I want to apologize, Drift. You told me your boundaries the first night we met. I crossed a line, and I’m sorry. You don’t owe me anything and I understand if you never want to see me again.”

            “I…” Wing dared to glance up at Drift’s face. His mouth was twisted into something like frustration. “Yeah. Okay. But I just… I wanted to…”

            He prowled restlessly back and forth in quick, jerky movements. Wing wrapped his arms around himself, even more nervous now.

            “I _wanted_ to forget about you,” Drift said finally, stopping in front of him. “But I… I can’t stop thinking about you. Every time I turn around I want to see you there, and all the time I can _almost_ hear your voice.”

            He made a sharp, aimless gesture with his hand. Wing stood completely still, not daring to move, not daring to make a sound, terrified of waking up from whatever dream this was.

            “I can’t take a client without wishing _you_ were there. I haven’t overloaded in three nights because I keep thinking about you and it’s all I can do not to call _your_ name. I can’t… I can’t get you out of my head.”

            The tumultuous ripples of Drift’s EM field broke free and Wing could suddenly feel how _scared_ Drift was. How much it cost him to open up and spill out what was bothering him.

            “I can’t get you out of my head,” Drift repeated, staring at him with those yellow optics suddenly looking more vulnerable than Wing had ever seen. “I really… I care about you too, Strike. I can’t even describe how it feels to have one person walk into your life and suddenly they’re _everything_.”

            Heat built in Wing’s Spark and behind his optics until he thought he was melting. He found his voice.

            “You don’t have to. I know.”

            Drift lunged for him as Wing opened his arms and they collided and entwined in a perfect mesh of plating. Wing made a hungry, vulnerable sound as they kissed. Drift’s hands landed on his audial flares, locking him close. Never letting him go again. The overwhelming force of Drift’s advance pushed Wing back until his knees hit the berth and he collapsed gratefully onto it, his mussed blanket nest cushioning his fall. Drift never let him break the kiss for an instant as he maneuvered onto the berth, twisting until he lay sprawled on his back with Wing stretched out on top of him.

            Despite all the heat rushing through both of them, the hot wash of air from their vents, Wing was in no hurry to turn this into interfacing. Somehow it was too precious for even that. He stole words in the tiny gaps between kisses that made his Spark swell.

            “I’m sorry.”

            “Sorry,” Drift answered, pressing his lips to the corner of Wing’s mouth. He spread kisses all across Wing’s jaw. “Never wanted to hurt you.”

            “Never could,” Wing whispered.

            They lazily rolled onto the side, Wing wrapping a leg over Drift’s, clinging to him with his whole body.

            “What do you want?” Drift asked, running a hand down the curve of Wing’s side. Wing snuggled closer, resting their foreheads together.

            “Just this,” he whispered. “Just you.”

            He spent a happy minute just looking at Drift, smiling foolishly while he petted Drift’s finials. The details could wait until morning. Tonight, all he wanted was to be with Drift. To exist in this moment, looking into each other’s optics, tangled up warm and comfortable in each other. He could spend the rest of his life like this, forgetting everything else. Just as long as he never lost this.

            “I love you,” he said finally, hoping against hope that this was real and not a dream and Drift wouldn’t run away.

            Drift’s face did something strange. Without suspicion, without denial, just affection pouring from his optics, he looked like a different bot. His lips quirked up in a shy smile.

            “I… I believe you,” he said, which was all Wing needed to hear. Drift’s fingers stroked the backs of his audial fins, making Wing nuzzle close, shamelessly eager for more of that touch. “But, um… again… I haven’t overloaded in three nights and I was thinking… maybe… you could try to beat your high score?”

            Wing burst out laughing and rolled on top of Drift, grinning down at him. Drift gave his own little laugh, fingers teasing over wing joints.

            “Challenge accepted,” he said warmly, dipping down to kiss Drift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: where do we go from here?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We’re going to start a new life together.

            Wing booted up slowly in a state of relaxed comfort, draped half over a warm body, with his face tucked into someone’s neck. Drift. Drift, here, sleeping in his berth, one arm wrapped around Wing’s waist and the other flopping off to the side.

            There were probably things he needed to do today, but Wing didn’t want to get up. He wanted to just stay like this all day, all _year_. Here with Drift: safe, warm, content.

            A smile tugged at his lips. He stretched languidly, keeping as much of his frame in contact with Drift’s as he could. He pressed a sleepy, lazy kiss to Drift’s jaw.

            Drift stirred with a little groan, his brow furrowing, then relaxing as Wing’s fingers brushed his cheek. His arm tightened around Wing. He had to be exhausted, and not just because this was normally when he recharged… they’d done a lot last night. His optics flickered dimly down at Wing.

            “Going somewhere?” he asked, voice crackly with sleep.

            “Nope.” Wing nuzzled against him, wedging his body just a little closer. Yes, that was better. Drift’s free hand made an appearance to stroke Wing’s head fins. Wing purred and rested his cheek on Drift’s chest, letting himself be petted.

            “Good?” Drift said. Wing hummed and moved his hand up to rub Drift’s finials. Drift cracked a smile. “You’re always messing with those.”

            “Like them,” Wing murmured. He enjoyed attention on his own fins and figured that what felt good for him might just feel good for Drift too. Little waves of heat spread from Drift’s touch, setting his engines humming in content. He gave a little moan of pleasure. Their plating slid slowly together as both of them moved in slow, languorous rocks.

            Drift mouthed at Wing’s head crest, his vents kicking up a notch.

            “Strike,” he breathed. “I want you to spike me.”

            Wing raised his head to stare at him. “Really?”

           Drift’s panel clicked open and Wing could feel the immediate wash of heat on the thigh between Drift’s legs. “That answer your stupid question?” The words held all the old sarcasm, but Drift was actually _smiling_ when he said them.

            Wing made as though to get up onto his knees, but Drift’s arm clamped down around his waist, keeping him snuggled close.

            “Don’t get up. Like this.”

            Wing buried his face in Drift’s neck as his panel opened. He reached down, regretfully abandoning Drift’s finial, to explore between Drift’s legs. He’d enjoyed Drift’s spike but had never played with his valve before. His fingers slid around the rim, testing the area. One of them slipped into the astonishing heat, massaging the internal mesh.

            “Stalling,” Drift said.

            Wing shook his head, nibbling on Drift’s neck cables. “Just want you to be ready.”

            “I can take it.”

            “Still want you ready,” Wing said stubbornly, seeking Drift’s outer node with his thumb. Drift rocked helpfully against him, his valve rippling around Wing’s fingers. Wing’s spike nudged against Drift’s thigh. He sucked on the cables by his lips, finally finding lubrication in Drift’s valve and doing his best to spread it around.

            “I’m ready,” Drift said. “Promise.” He tipped his head so his lips were closer to Wing’s audial sensors. “Come on, Strike. I want to feel you in me.”

            Wing gasped, his fingers twitching in Drift’s valve and curling up against some inner sensors. Drift groaned, rocking happily.

            “Yeah. See, Strike? Come on. I’m ready—trust me.”

            Wing did. Drift’s mouth captured his in a hungry kiss as Wing guided his spike carefully into Drift’s valve and sank slowly in until their hips were pressed flush together. Drift hummed, sucking Wing’s glossa into his mouth and tweaking his fins. Wing moaned, trembling on top of him, and gave a slow rock of his hips. Drift’s valve was so hot around him, calipers working around his spike like they were trying to pull him in deeper.

            “Come on,” Drift breathed, rocking against him. “Come on.”

            “My way,” Wing said, before Drift stole his mouth again. His fingers curled into Drift’s seams, anchoring on him, as his hips moved in slow rolls. Drift’s legs wrapped around his waist, holding him prisoner. He couldn’t pull out too far without Drift growling and tugging him back. Not that he was complaining—it felt too right deep inside Drift, with the two of them wrapped so tightly together they might as well be one mech, moving in slow waves, the heat of their vents mingling freely and their mouths alternately gasping and moaning and locked together. The temperature climbed higher as the low rumble-hum of their engines grew louder and more insistent.

            They never even had to speed things up. The same rolling pace eventually had Wing shivering on the brink, tucking his face into Drift’s neck again to muffle his desperate noises.

            “Come on,” Drift purred, holding Wing tight enough for paint transfers. “Come on, Strike, want to feel it in me—”

            The words pushed Wing over the edge and he tightened up, hips jumping against Drift’s as he spilled out in overload, his engines spiraling up to a whine. Drift groaned, stroking his wings while his calipers milked every last bit of transfluid out of him.

            Wing lay in a blissful haze as Drift petted his fins. As his systems cooled down, he tilted his head up to look at Drift.

            “Hey. You didn’t.”

            “Huh…? Oh. That.”

            Wing sighed, squirming against the arm still pinning him to Drift’s front. “Let me fix that.”

            Drift’s brow ridges raised quizzically. “I overloaded _twice_ last night, Strike. That’s more than most… people… what are you…”

            Wing had wriggled his way down between Drift’s thighs, where a mix of valve lubricant and transfluid glimmered on Drift’s plating. He kissed his way up Drift’s thigh, licking up the spilled fluids.

            “Strike—you don’t have to—” Drift’s voice was hoarse, his protests weak. He stared down at Wing with wide optics. “You don’t have to…”

            “I _want_ to,” Wing said, and ducked down to lick around Drift’s valve rim. His glossa flicked up over Drift’s external node and swirled around his spike cover. Drift’s thighs hiked up on either side of him.

            “Strike…!”

            “Can you open up? I have plans for this too,” Wing said, running his glossa around the cover. Drift made a noise close to a whimper and the cover clicked back so fast it almost caught Wing’s glossa in the works. His spike jutted almost instantly, helped along by the touch of Wing’s glossa.

            “Strike…” Drift croaked. “You really don’t have to. Come on. Nobody _wants_ to do this.”

            Wing looked up at him to see his genuinely puzzled expression. “Drift. _I_ want to. I want you to feel every bit as good as I do. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”

            “I’ve figured out you’re crazy,” Drift muttered. His glossa flicked out to wet his mouthplates. His optics were molten with desire.

            “We’ll see,” Wing said. He dipped his head back down between Drift’s legs and took the very tip of Drift’s spike between his lips, lapping at the transfluid slit. Drift’s vents kicked up.

            Wing wasn’t experienced with this, but he wanted to make Drift feel good, and what he lacked in technique he made up for in determination. He alternated between Drift’s valve and spike, licking up lubricants and transfluid. He hooked one finger into Drift’s valve to spread it out so his glossa could reach some of the inner nodes, finding all the places that made Drift’s legs twitch around him. When his glossa was tired from that, he moved up to Drift’s spike again, wrapping his lips around it.

            He slid his mouth down, the mass of it hollowing his cheeks and flattening his glossa. It was hard to concentrate on keeping his mouth stretched wide enough to keep his dentae from scraping painfully, but he worked downward, trying to get the whole thing. A twitch of Drift’s hips had him jerking back, coughing.

            “Hey,” Drift said hoarsely. “Don’t try to take it all at once. Takes practice. Trust me. This is… it’s enough, Strike.”

            Drift was probably right. Wing was a little disappointed—he’d wanted to take it all—but he’d have plenty of time to practice, if Drift would let him. He wrapped his hand around the part of Drift’s spike he couldn’t reach, stroking up and down while he sucked the head back into his mouth.

            “Oh… oh, _yeah_ , Strike…” Drift’s voice seemed to have gone down a whole octave. A hand stroked Wing’s crest and he shuttered his optics, his cheeks hollowing out as he sucked. “You look… you look so good right now, sucking my spike.”

            Wing drew off, gasping. Drift’s tone switched right away.

            “That okay? Talking like that?”

            “Yeah,” Wing gasped, nodding frantically. “You know that night you showed me your mod…? How you talked then?” He flushed hot at the memory of it: Drift’s voice, thick with pleasure, teasing, mocking him. _If you could see yourself now, all wrecked and wriggling._ “Can you… can you talk to me like that again?”

            “Sure,” Drift said, husky with desire. “Sure, if that’s what gets you off. For such a cute little jet you’re awfully _dirty_ , Strike. Now stretch that pretty mouth around my spike again.”

            Wing shuddered and obeyed. Drift’s hand rested heavily on his head, pushing him down.

            “You like that, don’t you?” Drift purred. “You want me to hold you down. Hey, go on—stroke like you mean it. You want me to overload in your mouth? You’ve got to earn it.”

            Wing moaned, tightening his grip on Drift’s spike and stroking up and down.

          “You want to get me off, work harder than that. I know you can. Come on, I want to see your head moving!”

            Drift’s fingers tightened on Wing’s crest, moving him bodily up and down on Drift’s spike. Wing tried to keep up, licking and suckling, awash in pleasure just from Drift’s teasing words. He slipped two fingers in Drift’s valve, thrusting and stroking. Drift didn’t tell him to stop. His hips rocked up and down, moving his spike in Wing’s mouth.

            “You’re a _mess_ , you know that? No coordination. But you’ll get the hang of it.”

            Oral lubricant and hot transfluid built up in Wing’s mouth and spilled over his chin, or down Drift’s spike onto his fingers. His lips produced loud wet noises as Drift guided him over his spike.

            “Look at you,” Drift said softly. “ _Listen_ to you. You _love_ this.” Under the teasing, there was a note of actual puzzlement, like he couldn’t believe anyone could like this—something he’d endured for money, to keep himself fueled, but something Wing wanted just for fun. “That’s it, Strike… that’s it…”

            He broke off into a groan, hips jumping suddenly. His hand pushed Wing down on his spike until Wing’s optics sprang wide open, a muffled noise of surprise and bliss escaping his stretched lips as Drift’s overload swept through him and the spike in his mouth suddenly released a thick jet of transfluid, then another.

            Drift’s hand jerked away as though burned and Wing came up with a cough, transfluid dripping from his chin. His glossa flicked out to get it off his lips as he wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

            “You okay?” Drift asked. “Sorry—should have warned you. I wasn’t really expecting…”

            “That’s what you get for underestimating me,” Wing said hoarsely, grinning at him.

            “No, okay, your technique is _terrible_. You wouldn’t last a _day_ in my business.”

            “Well, practice makes perfect.”

            “You mean you want to do that _again_? Frag, Strike…”

            Wing flopped onto his back, laughing. “Not right now, though.” He checked his chronometer and groaned. “Definitely not right now. I have to get to work soon.”

            They lay in silence for a few minutes while their vents slowed down.

            “That… that was good,” Drift said hesitantly, after a while.

            Wing smiled at the ceiling. “Yeah.”

            “I mean… the interfacing, that was good, and the… just…”

            “The cuddling?”

            “Eugh. Whatever you want to call it.” Drift’s disdain melted into shyness. “It was nice.”

            “We can do that anytime you want,” Wing said. His wild plans from last night were spinning in his head again. He’d work extra hours. He’d save all his tips. He’d work so hard that Drift wouldn’t _have_ to be a buymech, or at least, he could afford standards—take only the clients he wanted to take, do only what he wanted, without worrying that he’d go hungry. And then when they had enough, maybe they could get another apartment, a little bigger, just right for two, and then…

            His alarm beeped at him, reminding him of work.

            _One thing at a time,_ Wing told himself. Those big plans for the future depended on going to work now. But still… lying here with Drift…

            “Should I call in sick or something?” he asked, grinning sidelong at Drift. “We could make a day of it…”

            “What, are you crazy? Don’t pass up a day of work for me.” Drift sat up, staring down at the sticky mess of his thighs. “You go. Earn money. I’ll… I don’t know.”

            “You can stay,” Wing suggested. “You can use the washracks, go back to sleep…”

            “Better not. I mean I’ll take you up on the washracks. But I’d better head home. I… I’ve got to work tonight too.”

            _But not forever_ , Wing promised silently. _I’m going to do everything in my power to make you happy, Drift. We’re going to start a new life together._

 

* * *

 

 

            Wing’s good mood buoyed him through the start of his shift. His luck seemed to be holding: Windstream handed him a stack of datapads and transferred him more hardline messages for First District and the Senate house.

            “What’s got you so chipper?” the new courier, Downpour, asked him.

            “Nothing,” Wing chirped. “Just happy to be alive.”

            He spiraled through the air with more unnecessary loops and corkscrews than he had in days. The sun was bright, the tips promised to be good, and Drift loved him. He dodged past a blimp advertising “Proteus’s Promise,” just a few days away from its deadline, and landed by the Senate building. There was a line to get through the checkpoints. Security had tightened up ever since the assassination attempt on Nominus Prime. Wing fidgeted anxiously. He didn’t want any delays, least of all today.

            “Hey, Sunstrike!” The tall, friendly guard waved him over, smiling. “Haven’t seen you in a few days. How’ve you been?”

            Wing remembered the long days he’d spent not speaking to anyone, running messages as fast as he could just to go home and sulk in his blanket nest. “I was having a hard time, but it’s all over now,” he said. The thought of Drift made his Spark swell. “We patched it up.”

            “Good to hear,” the guard said, clapping him on the back. The gold crest on his forehead glinted in the light as he escorted Wing straight through security. He waved the others off. “It’s all right, he’s a regular,” he told them. “He’s got important business.”

            “Not _that_ important,” Wing protested, but quietly—anything to get the fast-track past security. “Thanks.”

            “Anytime,” the guard said. “You’re the most cheerful face I see around here. Brightens things up. We could all use a little of that.”

            Wing grinned. He suddenly realized he’d been seeing this guard for years and had never even caught his name. “My friends call me Strike,” he offered up. “What’s your name?”

            “Axe,” the guard said. “Good to properly meet you, Strike. I’d better get back to my post, but I’ll see you on the way out.”

            Wing nearly skipped through the plush halls on his way to the first delivery in his queue. He knocked respectfully on the Senator’s door.

            “Come in!” a voice called.

            This week Senator Shockwave was in teal and white. He was notorious for changing his paintjob: often bold, never tacky.

            “Message for you, Senator,” Wing said cheerfully, opening up the hardline panels on his arm. The Senator rounded his desk.

            “You’re chipper today,” he remarked. His optics glinted knowingly. “Someone’s in love.”

            Wing couldn’t help an embarrassed grin. “Is it that obvious?”

            “You’re almost glowing with it. They must be something special.”

            “He is,” Wing agreed instantly. “I don’t know how I got so lucky.” He remembered he was a professional, speaking to a Senator, and cut off before he started gushing. “Sorry, Senator. Your message.”

            “Quite all right,” Shockwave said agreeably, linking his hardline cables to Wing’s and accepting the query ping. “I’ve been there once or twice. It only gets better with time, believe me.” His optics flickered rapidly as he absorbed the contents of the datapacket. “Please transmit a reply.”

           Wing obediently filed the new datapacket deep in the encryption of his professional memory, safe and sound, and was pinged with the receipt of payment to Windstream.

            “And this is for you,” Shockwave said, pulling credits from subspace.

            Wing’s processor nearly overheated when he tallied up the shanix dropped in his hand. “Senator,” he protested, trying to offer it back. Nobody spent _that_ much tipping a simple courier! “This is too much.”

            The Senator’s hand closed around his, forcing his fingers closed around the shanix chips.

            “Take it,” he said, squeezing Wing’s hand. “Use it for that special someone.”

            “I… I don’t know how to thank you…!”

            “You just did,” Shockwave said with a smile. He let go of Wing’s hand and patted his arm. “You’ve got plenty of other deliveries to get to. Don’t let me keep you. You’ll want to get home early tonight.”

            “Senator,” Wing stammered. He tucked the generous… more than generous… tip into subspace. “I.. thank you. Thank you so much.”

            He somehow managed to get past the door controls and back into the hallway. His head spun with possibilities as he walked. Those wild plans from this morning didn’t seem so out of reach now. Not all in one day, of course, but the Senator’s gift was a firm foundation to start on. It was more shanix in one fell swoop than he’d ever gotten in a whole day’s work in First District. Any other money he got today, he decided with a smile, was going into _thoroughly_ spoiling Drift. Wing knew this place—he’d ogled it when he flew past, but never gone inside himself—where they did the most exquisite detailing, and with enough shanix nobody would turn their noses up at Drift, he could get an oil bath and a good tune-up and a polish and he would be even more beautiful, the most beautiful thing Wing had ever seen.

            He was so absorbed by imagining Drift sparkling and freshly painted that he never heard them coming.

            Something hit him, and his first thought was that he had accidentally collided with someone else coming out of the side hallway he passed. But then he was dragged bodily into the other hall and thrown to the ground. An inhibitor claw clamped around his wings, grounding him, as mechs grabbed his arms. Another mech’s weight dropped onto his back.

            Wing struggled, bewildered, but he was as helpless here as he had been the night he met Drift—he _really_ had meant to learn some self-defense, maybe Drift could teach him. He craned his neck, catching the dull gold glint of the Senate security forces badge before a hand slammed his head into the carpet, blocking his view.

            “What—what’s going on?!” he cried. “I… If this is about security, I have clearance…!”

            He gasped as five points of pain blossomed at the back of his neck and his optics shorted out. It was like when the Senate techs came to wipe their data, or Windstream checked them over—that same feeling of someone sorting brusquely through his files, probing into his mind. His processor ached and he groaned static into the carpet.

            The encryption around his data split open and Senator Shockwave’s data packet was yanked from his head with all the precision of a tank’s fist. _Espionage_? All couriers carried valuable data, that was why their encryptions were so important… but whoever had come in through the back of his neck had simply torn his protections open.

            “I have it,” a voice said from just behind his head.

            _In the middle of the Senate?!_ The impossibility of it made Wing’s head reel. You expected this sort of thing down in the Dead End with the gangs. They were the ones who’d rip a courier’s head off just to get at their processor. This… this was something so much bigger… these were Senate security… mechs on the _inside_ …

            His thoughts dragged, again and again, to Deluge. His conspiracy theories. Senate corruption. The Prime’s assassination. The ‘Institute.’

            “That’s all we need,” another voice said from in front of him; Wing tried to look up, but got no further than his feet before that hand on his head shoved him back down. “He’s seen too much. Wipe him and drop him.”

            “No!” Wing cried, desperate, already feeling cold fingers in his processor, the pain in the back of his neck intensifying. His head ached like it was about to pop. “No, please, I haven’t seen anything—I don’t know anything—please, I won’t tell—!! I swear I won’t tell just _please_ don’t—!”

            He sobbed as the cold ache spread through his files, leaving empty numbness in its wake. He clung desperately to the memory that surfaced: Drift in his bed, tangled in Wing’s limbs, actually _smiling_ at him, laughing, _loving_.

            “Please,” he tried to beg, _Drift_ , but his voice gave out into static, and then there was nothing.


End file.
